


Infinite Variety

by FoxFireside



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, First Time, Public Display of Affection, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 20,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxFireside/pseuds/FoxFireside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While watching the football game at the end of season 2's "Marked for Murder", Jack and Phryne's relationship takes on a new speed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A strange giddiness made him lightheaded as he looped the scarf around her neck.  His eyes locked with Phryne’s as a sense of joyful lust and want caused his hands to clench unexpectedly in the striped wool.  The action tugged her closer and his gaze travelled to her poppy-coloured lips that had parted breathlessly at his sudden boldness.

Sitting in the midst of a crowd of football fans, Jack knew he’d crossed a line of propriety between himself and Miss Fisher, but found that the knowledge invigorated rather than concerned him.  Having forced himself to be a mostly passive participant in Phryne’s game of “seduce DI Robinson” for so long, the rush he got from turning the tables on her sparked in his blood.

And Phryne…Phryne seemed lost for words for once: her face tilted up towards him, a smile on her lips, her eyes soft with desire.  Jack smirked, amused that he had finally found her way to stop her wisecracks and witty verbal assualts.  Perhaps the next time she barged in on one of his investigations, he could grasp her by the hips and tug her tight against him to stop her words...

Reluctantly, Jack relaxed his grip on the scarf and leaned back into his seat, aware that, with his ex-wife and former father-in-law (not to mention a grandstand full of football fans) close by, he could not give in to the desires that were rapidly overcoming his common sense.  For her part, Phryne was both stunned and slightly miffed that her years of mastery over her emotions and sexuality had been shredded by one man’s heated gaze and loving gesture.   And yet…despite the space he’d created between them, Phryne recognised a darkness in Jack’s eyes and a tilt of his jaw that said he was just as invested as she in this sudden acceleration of their relationship.  Impishly, Phryne decided that, although they had a football game to sit through before she could drag Jack off to have her way with him, there was no reason why she couldn’t test his self control in the meanwhile.

Jack watched her out of the corner of his eye, his whole body humming with awareness of her every movement, her every slightly-ragged breath.  When she relaxed into her seat and appeared to turn her attention dutifully to the game, he wondered if he had miscalculated her feelings for him.  Perhaps the world-changing emotions burning inside his heart were not shared.  Perhaps Phryne saw him as nothing more than a pleasant distraction and had never had any intention of moving beyond flirti…

Oh.

_Oh._

Her hand, her clever little hand, had snuck into the space between their bodies where they sat on the bench and she was _touching him_.  Her fingers trailed across his outer thigh before tracing a path across his knee and up the inner seam of his trousers.  Right here in public, with their friends and colleagues nearby, and nothing but the draped folds of his overcoat to maintain their privacy.

“ _Phryne!_ ” he hissed, although whether in reprimand or encouragement even he couldn’t say.  He fought to keep his eyes fixed at the field, but his heart was beating her name.  Unable to stay passive any longer, his left hand snaked down to capture her wandering fingers.  Using his grip on her to tug her closer, Jack leaned sideways as if to share an insight into the football game in front of them.  His lips at her ear, he whispered with barely concealed desire, “if you keep that up _Miss Fisher_ , I will be forced to defend myself.  I do not intend to embarrass myself like a virginal 20 year old whilst sitting in the middle of a grandstand.”

Jack heard Phryne’s breath hitch and her fingers, held tight in his grasp, twitched. 

“Jack, darling,” she breathed, all innocent smile and faked decorum, “that sounds like a challenge.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been cross-posted from fanfiction.net, where it can be found by searching for the same author name or in M-rated Miss Fisher stories.

Having let go of her hand, Jack felt that perhaps he’d bought himself a few minutes respite from Phryne’s onslaught – although the idea rather disappointed him.  Now that they had finally tipped over the edge of vague flirting into an undeniable admission of attraction, he found that his months’ of patience and uncertainty had crystallised into a decision.  This _thing_ , this magnetic attraction and dance he and Phryne felt was something he wanted to pursue.  Of that, he was definite.  But frustratingly, Phryne now seemed willing to wait.

Sure enough, the minutes began to tick by with no further assaults on his modesty and Jack found his attention shifting to the game being played on the field rather than the game the he and Phryne had been playing for the last few months.

Freemantle had just added two points to their score when warm air ruffled the hair at the back of his neck as Phryne leaned in demurely, eyes fixed on the field, and whispered, “Virginal?  I would have loved to have met you when you were virginal.  I would have delighted in breaking you in, Inspector.”

Her words had their no-doubt intended effect and Jack had to bite down on a curse when his body responded enthusiastically to Phryne’s bold words.  God, why had he spent so long denying his desires and dancing around this matter?  The way she made him feel was _glorious_ – alive in a way he’d thought impossible since the war.  He shifted slightly in his seat.

Jack was brought back from his thoughts when Phryne’s dexterous hand resumed its exploration of his leg.  Her fingers drifted under the tails of his overcoat where it billowed across the bench seat, seeking his skin, hot through the thin suit fabric he wore.  Her nails and fingertips produced barely any pressure, but the sensation was torturously good.  Jack found he was holding his breath and he sighed from between clenched teeth when she bumped her shoulder softly against him as if to reassure him that she was as emotionally invested as he.  Under the guise of adjusting the supporter’s scarf around her neck, Jack leaned closer to Phryne - only for a moment, but long enough to quietly reply to her earlier words: “I’ve learned a lot since I was a young man, Miss Fisher.  Indeed, I’ve endeavoured to improve my abilities whenever possible.  Perhaps we could compare notes.  Tonight?”

Jack assumed that the way Phryne’s hand pressed down on his upper thigh was a ‘yes’.

This man.  This delicious, clever man.  Phryne couldn’t believe she’d played coy with him for so long.  Happy to make up for lost time, she followed up on his words by letting her fingers trip higher along Jack’s leg, ghosting over his crotch for the first time.  She heard Jack’s breath catch in his throat, his body beside her tense with what she imagined was a mix of anticipation and concern over being caught.  Perhaps she had reached the limit of what he was comfortable letting her do in such a public setting.  Mischievously, Phryne drew her fingers down Jack’s leg for another pass.  But this time, as her hand gently caressed the zipper of his trousers, Jack turned his head to fix his eyes on hers, and slowly but deliberately tilted his hips up into her touch.

Phryne’s lips parted and she felt her pulse jump in her throat.  The very fact that Jack had turned the tables on her, was meeting her teasing head-on, was enough to send a rush of sensation through her body.  Beneath her palm she could feel Jack’s flesh rising to meet her touch and her mind was flooded with thoughts of straddling his hips, right here and now and damn to the onlookers.

Jack watched Phryne’s pupils dilate and a dark amusement took hold of him.  He raised his hips again, savouring the warm weight of Phryne’s hand resting over his cock.  He let his body sink into the pleasure of the moment, watching Phryne’s face as if daring her not to back down.  His thoughts, his _dreams_ , had been fixated on Phryne Fisher for so long.  The number of times he’d sat at his desk at the station or stood close beside her during an investigation and had to force his mind away from daydreams of wrapping himself around her and unleashing his lust – well.  There was only so much a man could take.

Her surprise at Jack’s forthrightness caused Phyrne’s touch to falter for a moment, but Jack’s own hand stole under his coat and pressed her hand down firmly, an almost silent moan rising in his throat at the pressure on his cock.  “I want you,” he whispered in a rush, no longer even pretending to look away from the woman beside him.  “I want to touch you, and taste you, and feel you around me…”

The half time whistle blew, cutting off Phryne’s response and causing her to pull away her hand as Bert and Cec bounded up the grandstand to debate with Hugh over the merits of the first half.


	3. Chapter 3

When the full time whistle blew fifty-six minutes later, Phryne found herself with no memory of the game and no idea as to who had won – though judging by the grumpy look on Cec’s face and the smug back pats shared between Bert and Hugh, Fremantle had triumphed. 

Beside her, Jack appeared to be the paragon of decorum.  To a casual observer, Jack and Phryne were nothing more than friends who had enjoyed viewing a riveting football game.  But for anyone looking with a careful and suspicious eye, the flush across Phryne’s upper chest and the uncomfortable way Jack draw his coat around him spoke volumes about the real focus of their attentions.

Through long association with her employer, Dorothy Williams had a careful and suspicious eye.  The look she sent at Phryne as they began to leave the grounds was a mix of red-cheeked embarrassment and a sense of happiness for her employer and the Inspector.

“A worthwhile day out, Miss?” she asked, voice innocent but her face anything but.

Phryne smirked, but there was a softness about her expression that proved more than lust was driving her emotions.  “Dot!  As pleased as I am that you’re coming around to my way of viewing the world, a lady does not kiss and tell.”

Dorothy raised an eyebrow and pressed her lips together to hide a grin.

“Well, not until one has formed a very… _thorough_ opinion,” Phryne allowed.  She didn’t notice Jack move up close behind her, but Dot did, and the girl’s face flushed with mortification as the Inspector gave her a knowing smirk.

“Oh, there you are Jack.  Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?” Phryne’s voice was light as she extended the invitation, knowing that dinner would not be the only thing shared with Jack tonight.  Her thoughts were already racing ahead, planning outfits and candlelight; imagining the variety of ways she and Jack could explore each other in the privacy of her bedroom.

“I suppose a quiet meal to celebrate the end of the case would be suitable,” he kept up the charade of respectability far too easily.  _Well, I can certainly change that_ , thought Phryne.

“In that case, shall we expect your company at eight?  Oh look, a sixpence!”  With an outrageously fake look of surprise on her face, Phryne leaned down and pretended to pick up a coin from the ground between Jack’s shoes, making sure to brush dangerously close to Jack’s crotch as she did so.  “A sixpence!  It must be my lucky day!” Phryne exclaimed, fixing an expression of vapid virtue on her face as she straightened up, having first made sure to have copped a thorough look at Jack’s newly urgent interest in her nearness.

The glare of frustration and lustful promise that Jack shot at her made her grin all the way home.


	4. Chapter 4

Their plans derailed at 6:17 that evening.

Hugh had unexpectedly pulled an extra shift to cover for a sick colleague and when he rang Jack to inform him of an unusual murder not far from the station, the technically off-duty Inspector had grumpily agreed to head to the crime scene.  Was it selfish to hope this crime would require only a quick visit, allowing him to spend his evening in leisure with Phryne?  Surely all of his attentions should be on the victim, not being diverted into daydreams of sliding his fingers down Miss Fisher’s naked back and around to touch her…

“Sir?”

“I’ll be there in 15 minutes Collins.  I have a telephone call to make first.”

 

\-----

 

Jack stood listening to the clicks of the open telephone line, feeling as nervous as a boy walking out with a sweetheart for the first time.  When the line cleared and the operator announced “you’re through, Emerald Hill 779,” and Phryne’s voice cut in, Jack swallowed.  Having expected Dot to pick up the telephone, he had to pause for a moment before he began to speak.  “I’m afraid I may not make it to dinner tonight,” he said with clear disappointment.  “There’s a body a few blocks from the station that needs my immediate attention.”

“There’s a body right here that needs your immediate attention,” she quipped without pause.

“Miss Fisher…” Jack sincerely hoped the switchboard operator was not listening in to the call as they were wont to do.

“Well, even if we have to postpone this evening’s planned…entertainment…there’s no reason why I can’t enjoy your company elsewhere.”

On the other end of the line, Jack huffed a laugh.  “I’ve learnt to expect nothing less.”

“You know me well.”

“Mmm.  Not as well as I soon plan to,” Jack murmured in a roughened voice.  A tinkling laugh was Phryne’s reply. 

Jack couldn’t help comparing this easy, racy conversation with the stilted way he’d conversed with previous lovers, Rosie amongst them.  Jack recalled the first (and last) time he’d tried to speak honestly with his then wife about the more adventurous sexual acts he wanted to commit with her.  Rosie’s shocked silence and subsequent two-week withdrawal from their marital bed had made him feel embarrassed and dirty; unable to reconcile the genuine love and fondness he felt for Rosie with the disgust she’d expressed towards his desires. The situation had effectively damped his libido for the rest of the marriage.

Jack passed on the address of the crime before ringing off, well aware that within 20 minutes he would be expected to turn his attention to a crime scene while trying not to throw himself at the lady detective he’d invited along.  He wasn’t sure how he would manage.

 

\-----

 

The streetlamps along the far end of Bank Street were too far apart to offer anything but an illusion of light.  Jack and Hugh had already made their way to the end of the narrow alley when the sound of a powerful motorcar engine and the clop of high heels announced Miss Fisher’s arrival.  Looking up, Jack found himself staring at the way Phryne was backlit in the entrance of the alley by the only nearby streetlamp.  The light caught on strands of her hair and made the thin fabric of her dress, where it showed below the hem of her coat, almost translucent. 

A moment’s jealousy struck him in the idea that Hugh might be looking at the outline of Phryne’s legs, but the constable had very wisely kept his gaze to himself.

“You certainly do take a girl to the most delightful locations, Jack,” Phryne remarked as she made her way down the alley.  The body, of a woman of about twenty-five, was slumped against a dustbin halfway down the cobblestoned lane.  Apart from the obvious fact that she was dead, the only sign of injury was a round bruise on one side of her neck.  The most startling fact of the case was the unclothed state of the body and the absence of any clothing in the vicinity.

“Why would anybody take her clothes?” Phryne mused as she crouched down beside the body.  Jack crouched down on his haunches beside her and cocked his head in consideration. 

“Collins and Constable Pratchett have searched the surrounding yards and streets.  There’s no sign of her clothing anywhere nearby.  Presumably the killer had a reason for taking it, but if he wished to conceal his victim’s identity, why kill her in such close proximity to City South Police Station?  And why leave her fingertips and face untouched?”  Jack gently turned the dead girl’s face into the dull light of Collins’ bullseye lantern, revealing unremarkable features.

Phryne studied the body, searching for any overseen clues, but she had to admit that there seemed little to see.  She was on the verge of suggesting they postpone the investigation until daylight when Jack stood back up and turned to Hugh.

“There’s nothing more we can do here tonight, Collins.  When the body is taken to the morgue, ensure that everything in this part of the alley is swept up and taken too.  The last thing we need is for some vital clue to be washed away by a morning swill bucket.”

“Yes, sir.  Uh…will you be returning to the Station, sir?”

Jack just managed to resist stealing a glance at Phryne before answering firmly, “I’m off duty, Constable.  The only place I’m going is straight to a stiff drink and a warm bed.”

Phryne’s amusement as she followed Jack down the alley was palpable.  “A warm bed, Inspector?  I notice you didn’t say whether or not it was your own bed and whiskey you would be enjoying tonight.”

“Miss Fisher, Collins has the makings of a first rate policeman and a dependable colleague.  But no matter how fond of the boy I might be, I have no intentions of telling him about my plans to spend the next few hours working out how many ways I can make you moan my name.”

Phryne would never admit that her knees almost collapsed beneath her at Jack’s admission of intent.

The moment they turned out of the alley, Jack quickly glanced both ways down the street before grasping Phryne’s right arm and using his momentum to swing her back up against the bricks of the nearest house wall.

“Jack, w..”

“Do you think I enjoy it, Miss Fisher?  Being at a crime scene, trying to do my job, and knowing that all I can think of is you?  Imagining the feel of your body against me, constantly recalling to mind the glimpses of nakedness you’ve thrown my way in recent months, trying to sate my desires with the memory of a stolen, unrequited kiss?”

Pinned against the wall, one of Jack’s hands protecting the back of her head from the rough bricks while his lower body pressed her into place, Phryne’s overwhelmed senses latched onto the most important issue:  “Not unrequited, Jack.  Never that, not with you.”

Jack leaned further into her, his nose against the side of the neck to smell the perfume on her warm skin.  His body was rigid, his voice deep but ever so slightly troubled.  “So many have fallen in love with you, Phryne.  Why did I think I could be the one to resist you?”

Phryne gave in.  Her neck arched, hair brushing the bricks, chest rising, hips relaxing to let Jack’s body lean more fully against her.  Her body set in a pose of welcoming submission, she kissed him gently on the mouth and spoke the truth.  “The others were distractions.  Fun but with no greater purpose than the delights of the flesh.  You are something different, Jack.  You’ve made a place in my life, my…feelings…that I had not thought possible of any man.”  There was still a kernel of uncertainty in his expression, so she added simply, “I don’t know what we are to each other, Jack.  We’ve both had our reasons to shy away.  But whatever we are building, here, it means the world to me.”

Eyes dark, he surged forward to kiss her again with an urgency that made Phryne giddy.  Confident now in the evenness of their playing field, Jack broke off the kiss only when Phryne’s wiggling caused him to raggedly jerk his hips against her before reining back his control: “For fear of traumatising Collins or any nosy householders, might I suggest we adjourn to your house?”

Phryne shook her head minutely, pausing to extend the tip of her tongue against the pulse in Jack’s throat.  “No.  Let the empire fall.  Here is my space.”

Gentleness joined the desperation in Jack’s eyes at the familiar verse.  “Oh!  My oblivion,” he mumbled in response as his eyes closed in pleasure at the sensation of Phryne’s lips kissing his throat.  But the cool air at the back of his neck drew Jack’s attention back to their dangerously public location and he managed to draw his body back from where he had pushed Phryne against the wall.

“If you think you can manage to drive us back to your residence, we can continue without fear of interruption,” he reasoned.

Phryne shook off the fog of longing, nodded once and positively raced Jack to where the Hispano-Suiza was parked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I just couldn’t help myself – I had to draw the situation out a bit longer for the fun of it.  
> Regarding switchboard operators: my mum operated a telephone switchboard for a while. And yes, most switchboard operator girls – whether for the general telephone service or in a private situation such as a large hotel’s internal communications – used to listen in to racy conversations if they were bored at work.


	5. Chapter 6

Ironically, Jelly Roll Morton’s _I Hate a Man Like You_ was playing on the Gramophone when he shrugged out of his overcoat and lay his Akubra crown-down on her dressing table.  She stood a few paces in front of him, watching him with a smile that promised that this was no throw-away fling.

“Do you plan on simply watching me all night, Miss Fisher?” Jack asked, his voice rough from more than the whiskey they’d shared.

Still fully dressed, Phryne cocked her head at him and motioned with one elegant hand for him to continue.  Jack realised that Phryne was enjoying watching him and that he was performing, for all intents and purposes, an inadvertent strip-tease.  Testing his new theory, Jack tipped his chin up and let one hand slowly tug at the half-Windsor of his tie, never breaking eye contact with Phryne.  Sure enough, her pupils dilated as he revealed the warm skin of his throat to her gaze and he felt a thrill run through him at the fact that the glorious, worldly Phryne Fisher was being affected by _his_ actions.

The game of voyeur was not one Jack had ever partaken in before, but he remembers the way he’d delighted in watching her fan dance at the Imperial and the way he’d refused to give in to the small sliver of shame that accompanied his lust and whispered _adulterer_ in his head.  The way he’d refused to look away and had instead continued to watch her the way he so very wanted to.  Like she had seemed to _want_ him to watch.  He’d had to close his eyes afterwards to fix the image of her bare torso into his memories and the experience had awoken in him a new awareness of the arousing possibilities of voyeurism. 

But any further exploration of his new interest would have to wait for another night (and _God_ , didn’t the promise of further encounters thrill him) because it seemed that Phryne, against all expectation, was so taken by the sight of a relatively innocent few inches of skin that she was already moving towards him. 

She wrapped her arms around his neck and stretched up to kiss him, her mouth opening for him as he splayed a hand across her back in encouragement.   The moment was sweet and more than a little sacred and they both smiled as she pulled back to study his face.  Evidently pleased with what she saw there, a smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.  “I seem to remember that you promised to make me moan.”

It took every ounce of his self-control not to simply crush her body against him as he heatedly replied: “Well then, I’d hate for you to think I wasn’t a man of my word.”

**

Jack allowed her to strip away his shoes and socks then his jacket and waistcoat before he placed his hands over hers and helped her to undo and remove his belt.  They were both breathing more heavily by now: the anticipation building rapidly between them.  With so many of his customary layers gone – his armour against the world, she’d always thought – the true intimacy of what they were finally about to do was apparent.  Phryne paused to kiss him again as Jack’s fingers traced over her still-dressed form as if relishing every moment.

“You know I meant what I said, earlier.  I _want_ you.  I want to do everything with you.” As Jack spoke, he guided Phryne’s hands to unbutton his shirt and tug the cuffs over his wrists.  “I want…” - and now he stood still as she tugged his white Bonds singlet over his head – “…to taste your skin…” – Phryne ran her hands down his chest as the words he’d kept buried for so long now broke free– “…and feel you shiver underneath me…” – Phryne moaned and wiggled her hand under the waistband of his trousers – “…and, _oh_ , and make you shake as I hold you down and press into you…”

Phryne was sure that she had never been so thoroughly seduced – and by this man who’d only ever hinted at these thoughts hidden beneath his staid exterior.  All of her usual patience for drawn-out foreplay and clever seduction had been shattered.  Jack’s hands found the hem of her dress and pulled it and her slip over her head, leaving her bare but for her stockings and smalls.  He seemed to take a moment to fix the image in his mind, then they were both a whirl of movement as Phryne worked Jack out of his trousers and underclothes while he simultaneously plucked at the clips of her garters and pressed the silk of her knickers aside to brush a knuckle gently across her curls.

With a gasp of pleasure and a wicked smile, Phryne pushed Jack onto her bed and sat down beside him.  Reaching hurriedly into the draw beside her bed, she brought out a black Bakelite case which she opened under Jack’s curious gaze to reveal the rubber diaphragm sourced by Mac to keep Phryne out of the ‘family way’.  Fully aware that such a device was technically illegal, she stole a glance at Jack’s face, checking for a reprimand or perhaps a sign of revulsion.  Many men treated contraception, especially one like this, as a topic of disgust or, at best, a necessary evil that they’d prefer not to have to think about.   But Phryne considered everything she knew about Jack Robinson, and after a moment of lip-biting indecision she took the risk.

Taking Jack’s hand palm-up in hers, she placed the device in his hand.  “Here, fold it like this,” she said quietly.  As she showed him how to manipulate the rubber she her eyes on his face: trusting him to appreciate the intimacy she was allowing him in this action.  She considered again the way most men were happy to reap the benefits of such a device whilst still acting as if such a thing was scorn-worthy women’s business.  To take an active part in inserting such a device…but Jack was not most men.  A few whispered instructions from Phryne was all that was needed.  With gentle fingers, he parted the soft folds of her sex and pressed the folded rubber inside, his fingers sliding through tight, slick warmth as far as possible before he let the rubber veil open into place.  When he slowly withdrew his fingers, deeply humbled by the trust Phryne had put in him, Jack met her eyes with a slow, happy smile.

Then she returned his smile and began to gently push him down onto the bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My use of tense is all over the place in this chapter – a side-effect of being extremely tired as I wrote. I hope it does not detract from the flow of the story. If you’re enjoying this story – these chapters – please review. Having never written sex scenes before, I need all the encouragement and feedback I can get!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 5 and 6 have been switched to improve the flow of the story.  
> Please be aware that I have never written sex scenes prior to this fic, so helpful reviews are much appreciated!

She gently pushed against Jack’s hip until he lay on his back in the middle of her bed, his neat left part now delightfully messed as he lay against her pillows, watching her from under half-lowered eyelids.  As Phryne took a moment to admire Jack’s naked form, he quirked an eyebrow at her and let one of his hands rest suggestively beside his hardening cock.  Charmed by Jack’s boldness, Phryne slunk up his body, using her lips and hands to trace the muscles that jumped under the skin of Jack’s strong legs and flat torso.

She positioned herself over him and his hands came up to grip her hips, his shadowed eyes flicking from her breasts to her eyes.

But instead of sinking down onto him, Phryne lowered her hips just enough to let the tip of Jack’s cock brush teasingly against the folds of her sex.  She rocked slowly forwards, letting Jack’s hardness slip through her slickness and press against her clit, then pressed down until the head of Jack’s cock was just barely pressed into the warmth of her body.

He moaned, then, long and low.  His eyes slid closed, his head tilted back and his grip on her hips tightened as he tried to corkscrew his hips upwards.  “Oh god, Phryne.”  He didn’t know whether to beg her to stop teasing him, or whether the sweet torture of this drawn out sensation was too good to end.

The feel of him pressing at the entrance of her body made all of her nerve endings fire, a warm feeling that seemed to tug at her nipples.  As the muscles surrounding the tip of Jack’s cock convulsed, one of Jack’s hands left Phryne’s hip to grasp the bedsheets.  “Phryne, oh, Christ, please..”

Unable to draw enough breath to speak, Phryne responded by pulling Jack’s hand from the sheets and pressing it to her breast. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve touched…been touched…I don’t…” Jack’s tone was desperate, embarrassed. 

She leaned forward just enough to kiss him.  “Shh, sweetheart.  I don’t mean to tease.  But I love you too much to rush through this.”

Jack’s hand stilled in its exploration of her breast and he looked up at her in something akin to wonder.  Phryne bit her lip.  She did not regret speaking the truth, but she wondered if she had made a mistake in letting the words slip out so soon.

Apparently not.

In one dizzying move, Jack grasped Phryne around the waist and yanked her down, her legs spread to either side of his hips as she sank onto his cock and met his lips with her own.  Jack used the tip of his tongue to seek entrance to Phryne’s mouth, his hips bucking in a steady rhythm as he used the hand on Phryne’s hip to pull her tighter around him.

“…love you, I love you…” he muttered into her mouth, causing her to hiccup a laugh of delight and intentionally tighten her inner muscles around him.  Their rhythm sped up as Jack sat up on the bed, allowing Phryne to wrap her legs around his waist.  The slight change of angle let Phryne throw her head back to concentrate on the feeling of Jack brushing against her clit with every stroke.  With what could only be described as urgency, Jack licked Phryne’s nipple into his mouth and braced one hand on the bed the better to raise his hips against her.

Phryne Fisher was no blushing virgin, but experience could not win out over love and desire so it was not long before she felt her body tensing towards climax.  Next time.  Next time, she would challenge him to match her bedroom skills.

But not now.  Tilting her hips forwards brought her to the edge of control and when she guided Jack’s calloused fingers to press, yes, there…

A shiver ran through her body, prickling along her skin and making her gasp and moan as her cunny clenched and released.  Forcing her eyes open, she found Jack staring wide-eyed at her face, his fingers still moving against her even as he forced his hips still.

“Oh, Jack, now.  Go on.  I want you to.”

Jack’s own eyes fluttered shut as he pushed into her again and again, moving through the last tremors of her cunny, his hips bucking, muscles straining, sweat damp on his brow where it rested against her breast, and –

“Oh god oh god oh…” He froze, head flung back and every muscle rigid as he released deep inside Phryne’s warm body.  As his muscles slowly relaxed, Jack opened his eyes and blinked at the woman wrapped around him in the most intimate of embraces.  She smiled tenderly at him: lipstick gone, hair messed, skin flushed, lower body slick with his fluids.

Jack had never seen anything so beautiful.


	7. Chapter 7

At three in the morning, the room was heavily shadowed; the dull yellow light of the bedside lamp casting just enough light across the bed for Jack to study Phryne’s face.

It was strange – seeing her so still.  She is normally a whirling dervish of energy that sweeps up everyone in her path.  But now she was sleeping, one leg tucked between his thighs, her left arm over his waist mirroring the arm he’s used to keep her pulled close against his body as they slept.

An unremembered fragment of nightmare had woken him several minutes ago.  Normally, he’d now be lying in his lonely bed, staring at the ceiling as the empty house creaked and settled around him; seeing faces long dead and places long ago left behind.

But tonight, it’s as if he’s been granted a reprieve from the sorrows and hard slog of life.  He was finally able - expected, even – to reach down and touch Phryne’s soft skin, to rest his head against the firm flesh of her breasts, to mouth at her neck and chase away the sharp shouts of _appell! appell!_ that echoed around his memories.

Phryne shifted a little in her sleep and the movement caused her thigh to brush higher against his groin.  Having thought himself past the hormonal rushes of youth, he was surprised by how rapidly (and _often_ , he amended with a blush) his body has responded in the hours since they fell into bed together.  He feels like a young man again – hopeful, keen, full of vim and vigour and ready to take on the evils of the world.

But before he took on the world, there was a rather more immediate task he wished to conquer.

Jack peeled away the thick cotton sheet and quietly moved further down the bed, trusting in instinct to help where technique may fail from long disuse.  When he was in place, he laid one hand low on Phryne’s stomach and bent his head.

Phryne was the fourth woman he’s slept with in his life.  A paltry number compared to Phryne’s own breadth of experience, but Jack has never had the opportunity or the need to add more lovers to the list.  Apart from Alice who lived next door when he was growing up and to whom he enthusiastically lost his virginity (despite his mother’s warnings that Alice was a ‘bad sort’), there had been a world-weary prostitute when he was a silly young Constable, high on hormones and egged on by his colleagues; and Rosie, who had pushed him away the one time he’d tried to pleasure her with his mouth.

Confident of a different response in this situation, Jack began to apply never-quite-forgotten knowledge to the most intimate part of Phryne’s relaxed body.  Her taste was sharp, a little bitter, and Jack wanted to keep tasting her to see if the flavour changed as he brought her body to the heights of arousal.  A gasping, pleased moan informed Jack that Phryne had woken.  As he closed his lips around her clit and sucked, she arched on the bed, her thighs trembling minutely.  Phryne’s moans became more frequent; her tumbled words of praise more nonsensical.  In some untamed corner of his brain, Jack gave himself a smug cheer.

Phryne tried to tug him up, ready for him to enter her, but he resisted.  He has imagined this in quiet moments alone with his thoughts when he was too worn down by a disturbing case or exhaustion to avert his guilty mind away from explicit daydreams.  Now that he was here, in her bed, and _she_ was here, spread naked beneath him, he would not be rushed.  No.  He wanted to thoroughly explore her with his mouth; commit her to memory and make her moan the way he’d promised.

When his fingers and mouth conspired to bring her to orgasm a few minutes later, Phryne’s muscles contorted into a rigour of pleasure.  Jack let Phryne pull him up for a long kiss, secretly thrilled at the way she chased her own taste from his mouth.

 

 

They lay in the pre-dawn coolness, sheet discarded to the rumpled foot of the bed.

“Thank you.”  His voice was lazy, deep.

“For what?”

“For letting me…do that..with you.”

Her smile was amused but not cruel.  “Jack, if you can’t say the word _cunnilingus_ after having had your tongue inside me, when _can_ you say it?”

“Yes…cunnilingus…”

 “And…you’re _thanking_ me?  Darling, anytime you wish to put that particular skill to use, _I_ will be thanking _you_ …most profusely.”

Jack hooked a hand over Phryne’s hip and hauled her close.  His hand smoothed over her stomach and down her thighs in a parody of a weapons search as they sank into sleep.

 

 

It was the sudden stream of daylight as the curtains were opened rather than Dot’s muffled squeak of surprise that woke Jack later that morning.  He caught sight of a brief flash of blonde hair and pink fabric before Dot pulled the door shut behind her rapid exit.

Phryne giggled.

“I fear I may have damaged Miss Williams for life,” he remarked dryly.

“Never mind.  She’s turning into quite the modern woman, you know.  Give her a moment to get over the shock of seeing such a magnificent specimen of…health…and she’ll be absolutely fine.”

                                                                                                                                                                                   

True enough, Dot reappeared ten minutes later with nothing but a knowing smile to show that the morning was anything different to usual.  The tea tray delivered, Dot left the new couple in peace.

Jack drank his tea in contemplative silence.  A quick glance at his face told Phryne all she needed to know.

“If you feel you need to sneak out the tradesman’s entrance, I won’t stop you,” she said.  “But the people in this house are both the most discrete of employees _and_ my friends.  I can assure you that they will seek to cause you no discomfort if you were to decide to join me for breakfast.”

Put like that, Jack felt ashamed for intimating that Dot and Mr Butler would be anything but kind.  So it was with his customary bemusement that he agreed.  “I would be delighted to join you for breakfast, Miss Fisher.”

 

 

News of the second murder reached them just as Mr Butler was clearing the plates from the table. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve taken my time with this chapter as I’ve been moving camp over the last week. New chapters should now come at the rate of about one to two a week.
> 
> I beg again your forgiveness for errors in tense. I missed half a year of schooling as a girl and I think the uses of tense was one of the things I missed!
> 
> Thank you to all those who've read and left kudos. Don't feel afraid to drop me a comment if you have ideas!


	8. Chapter 8

_Thanks, Woozle, for your footy-team info which has now been fixed in the story– how has no-one else picked me up on that?!  How did I forget that Freemantle is in West A???  Oh dear.  Ask me anything about State of Origin or the Brocs, go on!  The perils of being a (dolt of a) Queenslander writing for a Victorian show :)_ _  
_

_A very short chapter while I’m getting on with the next big chapter._

)()(

If Constable Collins noticed that his boss turned up to the crime scene in yesterday’s clothes (albeit cleaned and pressed by Miss Williams while Jack breakfasted in a dressing gown), he made no comment.  Phryne, of course, looked at cool and elegant as ever.  If Jack didn’t know better, he’d have assumed her to have had a restful, quiet night.

_Ha._

The newly deceased girl was a mousy thing with poorly cut hair and a plain countenance.  Whatever information could have been gleaned from her clothing was moot, for not a scrap of fabric could be found.

“She was found by the nightsoil man at about, uh...” Hugh pauses to consult his notes, “four this morning.”

_Right around the time that Jack was pressing Phryne into the bed, her legs high around his waist and her voice breaking on a litany of moans as he pushed deep inside her…_

“Apparently, he had to stop at home for a reviving beer before he managed to report what he’d found,” Hugh continued, oblivious to Jack’s drifting attention.  “But when we got here, it was clear she’d been dead for hours, sir.  Stone cold, sir.”

“Statements?”

“Uh, yes sir, we’ve got the nightsoil man’s statement and Vimes and I have been around all the houses ‘round here.  It’s mostly shift workers, so a lot of ‘em were at work all night.  Nobody saw anything.”

“Not that they’re telling, anyway,” Phryne murmured as she and Jack made their way out of the small yard and into the street.  The lack of obvious clues, the inability to identify the victims: it was all very frustrating.  Still, at least the second body may yet reveal information that could stop another girl from dying.

It was interesting, Phryne thought, the subtle changes in Jack.  The way he walked a little closer to her; smiled a little brighter at her; stared a little more intently at her.  It was…arousing.

…

A roundabout route to City South Station (a quick stop at a tearoom for a cuppa had led to a ten minute delay when Jack had to wait for his body to calm down.  The less said about Miss Fisher’s mischievously wandering hand, the better) meant that Hugh almost beat them there.  As it was, Phryne was perched on Jack’s desk going through the evidence list from the first murder while Jack rattled off instructions to Hugh about the organisation of post-mortems.

“And I don’t want to be disturbed unless it’s to tell me the police surgeon’s finished his report,” Phryne heard Jack order before he entered his office and shut the door firmly behind him.

 _Not to be disturbed_?Well, Phryne could work with that.


	9. Chapter 9

Jack slumped into his chair, very aware that the reason for his sleep deprivation was sitting on the desk barely a foot away.

Or not.  Phryne slipped to her feet, glided behind Jack and set about doing something sinfully relaxing to his habitually tense shoulders.

“You need to relax, Jack.  The world will not end on your watch.”

“Knowing my luck, Miss Fishe-“ Jack winced as Phryne’s hands tightened in wordless reprimand, “… _Phryne,_ that’s exactly when everything would go a-up.”  He let himself enjoy the workings of her hands for a few moments longer before leaning out of her touch with a guilty sigh.  “Enough, please.  How am I going to get any work done?”

Phryne shook her head.  “What exactly are you planning to do, Jack?  Until the post-mortem on our second girl is completed, there is no trail to follow.”

“The evidence from the first crime scene…”

“Useless.” She interrupted.  “I’ve read over it quite thoroughly.  Ditto for the second scene, unless our victims died from flecks of poor quality laundry detergent and an overabundance of rotten orange peel.”

“Well at the very least, I should cross-check the statements we have from the men who found the bodies.  We can’t all abandon our jobs for the pursuit of pleasure whenever the mood strikes us.”

He was aware that he was being unfair, but he felt as though he were holding onto his self-control by a thread.   How could he live with himself if he missed a chance to save a life or solve a case because he was distracted by lust when he should have been concentrating on his job?

Phryne’s face showed that his barb had hit home, but she took a calming breath and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder regardless.  “I’m not asking you to neglect the case, Jack.  Just to accept that sometimes, all you can do is hurry up and wait.”

He couldn’t help but smile at the fact that she, of all people, was advocating patience.   But Phryne was right, as she so often was.  There was nothing productive to be done until the police surgeon’s report was available.  Jack’s paperwork was up to date, there were no other open cases awaiting his attention and no-one could accuse him of shirking his duties if he took a load off his feet for a half hour.

Phryne sensed the moment Jack’s interest switched from the case to more intimate concerns.  Jack pushed his chair back from the desk, attention now focused entirely on the woman beside him, and made to stand.  If he was surprised when Phryne shook her head and pushed him back into the chair, he said nothing.  But when Phryne slid gracefully to her knees in front of him, Jack’s lips parted on a soft gasp of understanding.

Phryne rested her hands on Jack’s knees for a moment as she gloried in watching the realisation of her intentions spread across Jack’s features.  The moment she started to smooth her hands up the fabric covering his thighs, Jack’s head dropped back and he gripped the chair as if it were a lifeline to his sanity.

“Phryne, good God, what are you-“

“Shh,” she reminded him, enjoying the power she held over him.  “Hugh is right outside that door – not to mention the rest of the men on duty.  You’re going to have to be _quiet_ , dear.”

Jack shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he was really sitting in his office with Phryne’s fingers plucking at his belt and at the button of his trousers.  “We can’t do this…” Jack paused as if thinking better of that statement, and amended, “not _here_.  Christ, Phryne, if we get caught I’ll be up on disciplinary action and _ohJesus_!”

Bored with Jack’s attempts to behave, Phryne had tugged open Jack’s zipper and was mouthing at the cotton undershorts beneath.  Her clever tongue flicked out to wet the fabric and draw a sound of pained arousal from Jack.  His hips wriggled underneath her as if he couldn’t decide whether to try to get away or to push forward for more.

Jack’s eyes were fixed unseeingly on the frosted glass of the door, his breathing hitching and his brain momentarily unable to process the fact that Phryne was hooking her fingers into the fabric of his trousers and underpants to pull them out of the way so she could _suck his cock._   In his _office,_ in the middle of the bloody morning with half a dozen policemen _outside the door_ , for God’s sake.

Jack shuddered at a new sensation and dragged his gaze down to see Phryne’s silky dark head bent over his lap, her breath hot on his exposed skin as she watched her own fingers explore the length of his hardening cock.

With a moan, Jack decided to stop fighting the turn of events and to instead follow Lawson’s advice:

_For I’m following Fate, and I know she knows best,_

_I follow, she leads, and it’s nor-west-b’-west._

 

 - And what a glorious Fate Phryne made.  Jack couldn’t suppress the yearning to trace his fingers down her face and cup her jaw.  When she felt his touch, her eyes closed and she leaned her face into his grasp.

“Jack,” she sighed, her face peaceful, before she opened her eyes and gave him a suddenly wicked smile.  Shucking his touch, she lowered her head and closed her lips around the head of his hardness.

Jack’s head dropped back as if his strings had been cut.  His hips lifted up without his permission and his eyes squeezed themselves tightly shut.  Phryne’s mouth was wet and hot and working diligently towards swallowing his entire length.  The feeling was almost indescribable.  Shivers ran over his skin as if he were a telegraph wire, his heart stuttered a rhythm of _PHRYnePHRYnePHRYne_ and a feeling of intense, pleasurable heat formed within his cock and ran through his pelvis.  When Phryne brought one hand up to hold him in place and she began to slide her mouth rhythmically up and down, Jack’s hands shot out to grasp at strands of sleek hair – not tugging, but simply holding on as if in need of a way to anchor himself amidst the incredible pleasure shooting through his body.

Incapable of words, all he could do was bite down on moans and gasps as his body seemed to fold up tighter and tighter beneath her ministrations.  He was aware that he was pushing the boundaries of ‘quiet’, but all thoughts of the world outside this room had been shattered.

Then Phryne’s throat closed in a swallow around the base of his cock and he was _gone_.

A surge of energy shot through him and forced every muscle rigid.  The heat that had been building broke into a mind-numbing sense of relief as Phryne swallowed down his pulsing release.

Strings cut, sweat-dank hair curling across his forehead, body trembling from sensation, Jack dropped loosely back into his chair.  Through half-open eyes, he watched Phryne lick her lips.  His over-sensitised body twitched at the sight and he whimpered as a final pulse left his cock and smeared across her mouth.

Good God.  Why had he _ever_ thought this was a bad idea?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, um, there’ll be some actual plot progression at some point, I swear. I do actually have a crime plot sketched out for this story, believe it or not. 
> 
> As far as this update goes: I was going to have Jack take Phryne on his desk in this chapter, but somehow Phryne beat me to the punch and caused this to happen instead. Though I suspect Jack is not complaining.
> 
> A thought: Jack has often quoted Shakespeare to Phryne, but I imagine he’d also have a soft spot for the writers of his own country. I think he’d feel a sense of kinship with the self-educated Lawson who rose above his station to shape his life for himself.
> 
> Literature and Language for the uninitiated:
> 
> A-up Arse-up (everything gone wrong and turned on its head)
> 
> “For I’m following Fate..” Henry Lawson’s “On the Wallaby” AKA “The Tentpoles are Rotten”. Haunting, wonderful, and just the sort of thing Jack would be familiar with. Lawson, like Jack, was a self-educated man with an eye for the beauty and horrors of the world.


	10. Chapter 10

When Hugh knocked on the office door, the two inhabitants were fully dressed and sitting on opposite sides of the desk in a tableau of respectability.  Only the way they occasionally looked at each other with barely hidden desire would have given them away as they passed files back and forth and pondered crime motives and methods.  
“Come in.”

Hugh entered brandishing a manila folder of papers.

“The post-mortem, Sir.  And the body has been left out in the mortuary for the next hour in case you want to check anything yourself.”

“Very good, Collins.  Shall we, Miss Fisher?”

Jack opened the door for Phryne, holding back a smile as she intentionally brushed against him as she exited the room.  They headed for the hospital mortuary, leaving behind a Constable struggling with the burgeoning idea that something not entirely professional might be going on between the two most terrifying role models in his life. 

…

The mortuary smell of cold limestone and ammonia greeted Jack and Phryne as they pulled the sheet back from the body of the second victim.  The only visible wound was again a round bruise on the neck.  Like the first victim, this girl had been subjected to violent sex or rape shortly prior to her death – a fact that caused Phryne’s face to harden like stone.

But her pain easeed when Jack gets nearer the end of the report.

“Apparently our killer was not so careful this time.  There’s grease and flour in the hair behind her right ear.”

“Left there at the same time the bruise was inflictred?” Phryne wondered out loud.  She leant over the body and located the area, pressing her ungloved fingers to the hair.  “Flour and grease.  Pastry?”

Frowning, Jack grasped Phryne’s wrist and sniffed.  “Lanolin.  That’s wool grease, not cooking lard.”

“Well done, Jack!”

He shrugged.  “As a single man, I find myself waterproofing my own shoes and raincoat.  Besides, I had an uncle on a farm when I was a boy.  The smell stays with you.”

Phryne snatched the file from Jack’s hand and flipped through the pages.  “So we have a killer who likes to rape women, kill them with a single blow to the neck and who comes in contact with cooking flour and lanolin.”  She handed the file back and frowned.  “That’s still not terribly helpful.”

“But it’s a start.  Let me make a few telephone calls.  Perhaps you could make some enquiries of you own and we could meet tonight?”  Despite the intimacies they’d shared over the last two days, Jack still sounded hesitant about suggesting a late-night “meeting” – as if he expected to be turned down with a kind but definite “the sex was fun, but…”.

Phryne did her best to squash his self-doubts.  “Dinner at eight o’clock, followed by plenty of very good whiskey while we solve this case and relax a little?”

Jack broke into a smile of relief.  “I’ll see you then.”

…

Dinner eaten, whiskey enjoyed, and the case’s dead-ends discussed, Jack had Phryne pinned gently to the chaise lounge, his mouth exploring the soft skin above her neckline, when the sound of voices and heavy boots disturbed their peace.  When Cec and Bert stomped into the parlour with Dot trailing helplessly behind them, Jack had managed to sit up – but the guilty look on his face, combined with the way Phryne still lay breathlessly on the lounge beside him – made it clear that something had been interrupted.

Cec turned his eyes downwards and scratched at his neck, while Bert favoured Phryne with an inscrutable look.  If Jack had to put a name to the look that Bert then turned on him, he would call it _protective._

From behind the cabbies, Dot apologised.  “Sorry, Miss, they said they’ve got important information and they didn’t have the good manners to wait in the kitchen.”

“Well, you asked us to look into your theory and we’ve got the goods, so we thought you’d wanna know as soon as possible,” Bert protested stubbornly.

Phryne sighed and sat up.  “Quite right.  Well?”

Cec stepped forward.  “We checked about the trains, Miss, but there ain’t been no wool arriving in the last week.  So we had a chat with a Comrade what works with the harbour master…”

“…and he reckons there’s three ships in port that’re loading up with fleeces.  One of ‘em only arrived today, but the other two’ve been moored since the day before yesterday.  One’s a private ship doing trade with China and the other one’s a Merchant Navy ship from Britain,” Bert finished.

“I telephoned the Port earlier today but was told that there were no ships with a cargo of both wool and flour, so I dismissed the possibility of it being a lead,” Jack pointed out.

Cec shook his head.  “That’s right, but what they wouldn’t’ve told a policeman is that the Merchant Navy ship always has at least two English cooks on board.  The smaller ships get by on stale bread bought in Port but the Navy ship’s cooks bake their own.”

“So they’d have a stock of flour on ship.  The cooks would have access to the flour and very well might have contact with the fleeces somehow.”

“That’s what we figure, Miss,” Cec nodded.

“When is this ship due to sail?” Jack asked.

“Tomorrow night.” Bert replied.  “She’s called the _King’s Arms_.”

“Thank you, boys.”  Phryne said, rising from the chaise to guide them from the parlour.  “I’m sure Dot can find you something to eat before you leave.  I owe you a favour in the future.”

Bert and Cec left with one last glare in Jack’s direction.

Alone with Phryne again in the seductively lit parlour, Jack cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I better head to the Station.  I’ll need to contact the harbour master for the _King’s Arms_ crew list so I can put names to our new suspects.”

Phryne nodded, but sat down close beside him and leaned in for a final kiss.  “I could come with you?”

“That might not be a good idea.  I’m likely to be on the telephone half the night and you’d be bored to death.”

“Will you come by when you finish?  There’s a bed here for you, if you wish.  I’ve a spare key for the kitchen door for you.”

Jack let his hand slip to the back of her neck so he could draw her closer, overwhelmed by Phryne’s thoughtfulness in inviting him into her household.  “Would I be sharing the bed with anyone?” he asked against her lips.

“Only if you want to,” was the reply.  A soft, searching kiss kept them occupied for a few moments, then Jack reluctantly broke away and stood up, palming the offered door key.

“You have no idea how much I _want_ , Miss Fisher.”  And with that promise, he left for the Station.

…

It took several hours to get the names of the cooks aboard the _Royal Arms_ and to find the names of the ports that the ship had previously sailed to.  With a list of locations to go on, Jack spent much of the night telephoning sleepy policeman along the East Coast in search of any similar unsolved crimes.  By the time he’d organised telegrams to be sent to the overseas ports on his list as soon as the telegraph office opened, it was past one in the morning.

Despite his tiredness, the thought of returning to Phryne’s embrace instead of his own vacant house buoyed him up on the way out of the Station.   Jack began to realise how much he missed this – having someone to come home to: someone who loved you.  Even better when it was someone who _understood_ who he was and what the job required of him and meant to him.

.

The kitchen door yielded to Jack’s newly acquired key.  As quietly as he could, he locked the door behind him and made his way through the silently sleeping house and to the door of Phryne’s bedroom.  Slipping inside, he saw that Phryne had left a bedside lamp on for him.  The woman herself as lying beneath the bedcovers, dressed in her favourite silk robe, as if she had decided to stay up and wait for him but had been overcome by sleep.

Near the window there was a washstand laid out for him with an enamel basin full of clean, soapy water, a small towel, and a toothbrush.  No doubt Phryne had given instructions to Mr Butler or Dot to make the preparations.  Jack couldn’t remember the last time somebody went to such trouble for him.

A few minutes later, he had cleaned the day’s dust and sweat from his skin and was ready for bed.  Leaving his clothes folded on the washstand rail, Jack made his way to the bed and slipped beneath the sheets.  The movement caused Phryne to open her eyes and blink against the light of the bedside lamp.

“Hello,” Jack smiled, greedily taking in every detail of the way Phryne looked, lying in bed beside him.  When she smiled sleepily back, he pressed a quick kiss to her mouth.

“What time is it?” she yawned, propping herself up on an elbow to face him.

“About half one in the morning.”  Jack mirrored her position, watching her fingers run down his naked chest and lower to gently caress his cock.  It was intimacy without immediate intention: the actions of long-term lovers, not short-term playmates.  He returned the favour by helping her shuck off her robe and was hit by a wave of desire when he saw she was naked underneath.

Phryne’s half-open eyes never left his face as Jack ran one hand slowly down her body and between her legs.  The wetness there made him realise that when she said she had been _waiting_ for him, she hadn’t spoken in jest.  The thought made him begin to harden despite the exhaustion pressing down on his body.

“We don’t have to,” Phryne said softly, appearing to read his thoughts.  “I love you Jack: regardless of what we do or don’t do in bed.”

“You are…far too good to me.” Jack whispered, trying to keep his emotions in check.  But a kiss to his throat was too much and he moaned in blessed defeat as he pulled Phryne’s left leg over his hip and let himself sink into her body.

There motions were slow and sleepy, but none the less sweet for that.  When Jack bent his head to bite at Phryne’s nipples, his unshaved face rough against her skin, she trembled in his arms and cried out.  The sensation of her body tightening around him, combined with the knowledge that it was his actions that brought her such pleasure, meant that it didn’t take long for Jack to follow her into release.

Sleep took them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Anyone reading A Working Man’s Paradise will know why Bert and Cec react the way they do.
> 
> Lanolin for the uninitiated:
> 
> Lanolin is the natural oils produced by a sheep’s skin to condition its wool. It makes natural wool (pre-processing) quite greasy and it has a very particular smell. Lanolin has long been used in Australia for treating damaged and cracking skin due to its moisturising properties and can be found as a product of its own (Lanolin hand cream, etc) or as an ingredient in some Australian-made cosmetics brands. Lanolin is also available in a tin as a leather conditioner and waterproofing agent. It is buffed into the leather using a soft cloth. Like ‘Kiwi’ brand shoe polish, tins of lanolin leather treatment have been used almost unchanged (in formulation or packaging) by Aussies and New Zealanders for a good one hundred years and are considered a bit of an icon.
> 
> The ‘raincoat’ Jack refers to would be a leather Drize-a-Bone (‘dry as a bone” – get it?) coat worn by stockmen, bushies, and the occasional city gentleman or lady. Another old Aussie brand still going strong, Drize-a-Bones matched with Akubras (THE brand of Australian broad-brimmed felt hat) are pretty much the stereotypical image of an Aussie from the country, for the excellent reason that it really is what is worn.


	11. Chapter 11

Three days straight wearing the same set of clothes - this was getting to be ridiculous.  _At some point, someone at the Station would surely notice_ , Jack thought to himself as he dressed the next morning. 

He had no real desire to be out of bed at a quarter-past-seven this morning – especially not when Phryne lay still warm and naked and asleep behind him.  But he needed to go home, change into a fresh set of clothes, and get a head-start on tracing the new suspects of the case.  And a bit of time away from Phryne’s company might do his sense of self-control a world of good.

..

At his own house, Jack quickly washed and shaved, discarding his clothes – _scented faintly with Phryne’s perfume_ – in favour of a clean set.  Idly, Jack wondered whether Phryne preferred the new fashion for belts and zip flies in her suitors, or if she found the extra effort of unbuttoning trousers and braces arousing.

Hopefully he’d soon find out.

..

On the telephone, the harbour master was surprisingly helpful in supplying the names of the _Kings Arms’_ two cooks with a minimum of fuss.  An hour after he arrived at the Station, the first responses to Jack’s telegrams started to filter in, confirming that the merchant navy ship’s previous ports of call had been afflicted with similarly violent crimes towards women.  The details varied a little – some women were beaten about the head, a woman in Sydney had had her jaw broken, and a pregnant prostitute in Brisbane was bashed so hard she miscarried her child.  What remained the same was clear:  everywhere the _Kings Arms_ moored, women were violently raped and aggressively attacked with a sharp, round weapon.  A DI in Brisbane had admitted by telegram that he’d had deep suspicions about a crew member of the _Kings Arms_ possibly being involved but had dropped the case when he couldn’t produce any evidence.

Jack was about to fetch the duty Constable when a waft of perfume and the sound of heels announced the arrival of Miss Fisher.  She let herself into Jack’s office, shutting the door behind her, and met his gaze with a smile.

“Good morning, Jack, I hope you’ve had a productive morning?”

“Good morning.  Indeed, it’s a marvel what one can accomplish if choosing to wake before noon,” he teased, inviting Phryne closer with a lifted hand.  When she smiled coyly and sat on his knee, Jack drew her into a sweet kiss.

“I missed you this morning.  It’s a bit of a shock, how quickly I’ve grown accustomed to waking up beside you,” Phryne whispered as her lips met Jack’s again.  He couldn’t help expressing his agreement by deepening the kiss before he forced himself to pull away and clear his throat.

“I have some news.  There’s a clear trail of crime against women wherever the merchant navy ship has sailed.  Our two suspects, Alfred Mahony and Emil Francis Dodgson, are both due back from shore leave at twelve o’clock.  I was about to take Constable Vimes with me and bring them in for questioning, but since you’re here…”

“A trip to apprehend a possible murderer.  You know how to charm a girl, Jack.”  Phryne laughed, sliding off Jack’s lap to stand.  She offered a hand and pulled Jack to his feet:

“Lay on, Macduff.”

…

Alfred Mahony broke after half an hour of questioning.  When he admitted that Emil Dodgson had forced him into providing an alibi for the night of an attempted murder in Port Brisbane, Alfred started crying.  He never wanted to be mixed up in it, he swore.  But Dodgson was a mean devil and Alfred was afraid of what would happen to him if he told anyone that Emil wasn’t really in his bunk that night – or any of the nights when women were reported dead or injured in the cities the ship visited.

Jack found it hard to feel too much pity for the young assistant cook – too many innocent women had been injured because of his silence.

With the weeping Alfred returned to his cell, Jack the task of questioning their alleged killer.

“Phryne, I don’t want you in the room for this,” he said sternly as they took a moment to process the additional information Alfred had given them – about the way Dodgson had bragged of his cruel acts; of the way he degraded his victims by forcing them to undress before he assaulted them.  Alfred reported that the clothes were thrown over the side of the ship within hours of each murder.

“Jack, please,” she began in an exasperated tone, “I’m not afraid of-“

“It’s not a question of _your_ fear, Phryne.  It’s about _mine_.  I don’t want this…destroyer of women to so much as lay eyes on you,” he admitted softly, “and I won’t be able to concentrate on questioning him unless I know you’re safely out of the way.”

His honesty was enough to make her stop and consider what he was saying.  This was not just DI Robinson the policeman asking her to stay away from an interview – it was also Jack Robinson the man, begging the woman he loved to let him protect her.

How could she do anything but agree?

..

When the duty sergeant brought Dodgson into the interview room, Jack hardened his features and prepared to look into the eyes of a monster.

At first glance, Emil Francis Dodgson wasn’t much to look at.  A mixed English-German heritage had given him a square jaw and pale blue eyes.  His skin was pocked and his teeth crooked.  But when Jack looked closely, he saw that Dodgson’s muscles were wiry and tight from years of sailing and of hauling around heavy flour bags and industrial cooking pots.  And there was a look of viciousness in the corners of his eyes that belied the easy smirk on his lips.

“What’s that useless bastard Alfie been saying ‘bout me?” the man drawled

Jaw tight with supressed anger, Jack outlined the case against Emil, including the grease and flour found on the second of the two Melbourne victims.

Emil laughed.  “Lanolin and flour?  Proves nothin’ and you know it.  Lots’a ways a girl could get that sort’a stuff on her, isn’t there?  There ain’t no evidence, nowhere, is there?  ‘Cause I ain’t done nothin’.  I got a good service record, I do.  Send money home to me mammy every month, postcards to me little brother what’s in school back home…never spent no time in jail for causin’ any sort’a trouble.   I’m a free man an’ you know it.”

It took all of Jack’s years of police experience to stop himself from punching the man right in his smug face.

The worst of it was that the man was right.  There was no physical evidence to tie Dodgson to these crimes or any others.  Furthermore, Dodgson was smart enough to avoid saying anything that could be taken as a confession.  And with a good Merchant Navy record behind him, no jury in the country would convict him on the basis of a smear of sheep grease and a dusting of flour.  Even the assistant cook’s word might not be enough proof.  But Jack was going to try his damnedest to ensure Emil Dodgson would hang.

..

Jack was subdued for the rest of the afternoon.  Locked in his office with Phryne, Jack slowly told her about Dodgson’s taunts and she shared his frustration and horror at the way this man had been getting away with rape and assault.

Jack had to ring the harbour master and ask him to explain to the captain of the Royal Arms why his two cooks would not be ready to set sail that evening.  Then the statements of both sailors had to be written up before Jack was finally able to push away from his desk to leave.

The hour was late, but as Jack found himself following Phryne back to her home for dinner, there was a feeling of relief that the case was finally moving forward.

..

Jack was woken at five a.m. by Mr Butler knocking insistently on the door of Phryne’s bedroom.  When he realised that the servant was calling ‘DI Robinson’ between knocks, Jack hurried to locate his trousers and struggled into them.

“Sorry, sir,” Mr Butler said as Jack opened the door, “but young Mr Collins is on the telephone for you.  He says it’s urgent.”

Jack nodded his understanding and followed the butler to the telephone in the downstairs hall, trying not to think too much about why Collins thought to find Jack at Miss Fisher’s residence at this time of night.

“Robinson here,” he said as he picked up the telephone.  Collins’ voice on the other end of the line was apologetic.

“Sorry for waking you, sir.  Sergeant Angua rang me at the boarding house when he couldn’t get you on the telephone at home, sir, and I thought, well, I thought…”

“You thought this was the most likely place I’d be,” Jack put the constable out of his misery.

Collins sighed in relief at Jack’s calm tone of voice.  “Yes, sir.  I thought you might be…looking over evidence with Miss Fisher.  Not that…I mean, Miss Fisher is a lovely…not that I’ve been thinking about…”

“What’s the emergency, Collins?”

“Sir, it’s the other cook – Alfred Mahony.  He’d dead, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting - and thanks to the reviewer who said this is a favourite fic! I've been busy finishing Brown Rice and Kerosene and hacking out the first chapter of the Irate Inspector series.


	12. Chapter 12

When Jack swept into the Station with Phryne in tow half an hour later, he decided to just ignore the blush spreading across Collins’ face.  Phryne, however, found time to throw a saucy wink Collins’ way as the three of them made their way to the cell where Alfred Mahony had met his death.

“What exactly happened?” Jack was demanding, “He was in a cell in a separate area to Dodgson…I fail to see how our only solid evidence in this case is lying dead in police custody!”

“He killed himself, sir,” Collins replied, following close behind as Jack and Phryne descended the stairs.  “I think…I think, sir, that the other prisoner might have convinced him to do it, sir.  Someone passed a note between them.”  He produced the note from his pocket and offered it to the Inspector.

“…say a word and your family will regret it…” Jack read part of the message aloud.  “Well, that seems clear enough.  Which idiot passed the note along to Mahony?”

“No-one’s admitting to it, sir.”

Phryne shook her head.  “Considering the note’s recipient is dead, whichever officer passed the note is unlikely to admit their part in the whole debacle.  How did Mahony die, Hugh?”

“He stabbed himself in the heart, miss.  With this.  It’s used by sailors for rope work and hauling lines, Vimes told me.”  Hugh produced a tapered metal Marlinspike from his jacket pocket.  Four inches long and fairly sharp, it must have taken a lot of strength and determination – or terror – for Mahony to force it through flesh and between ribs to find his heart.

“Poor man,” Phryne said, as Jack finished examining the tool and passed it to her.  “Dodgson must have scared him out of his wits if he was willing to end his life with this.”  As she handled the spike, she cast a startled glance at Jack.  “Jack, the hilt end of this tool, do you think…?”

He nodded.  “The bruises on the dead girls’ necks.  The blunt end looks like the right size and shape to have caused them.  And if Mahony was carrying one around with him, there’s a good bet Dodgson owns one as well.  Just like all the sailors in Port Melbourne.”

..

Phryne and Jack examined the dead man’s body before making their subdued way to Jack’s office.

Emil Dodgson was going to walk free.  With no physical evidence and the only witness dead, the case was irretrievably destroyed.

“Jack, he’s going to keep on attacking women.  And he’ll no doubt take this as a lesson and be even more careful not to get caught in the future.  We can’t let this happen!”

“We’ve got no choice.  There’s no damned evidence!” Jack’s hands were balled into fists in frustration as he paced across his office.  Phryne sat on the edge of the desk, her own anger palpable in the way she tapped one heel against the side of the desk in an angry tattoo.

“Surely there’s something you can do!  You’re a police inspector, for god’s sake, can’t you..”

“What, produce false evidence?  Beat him until my knuckles bleed?  What would you have me do, Phryne?  As much as I want to see him hang…as much as I want to use my fists to show him exactly what I think of a man who hurts women…I _am_ a police inspector.  I must uphold the law.  Please, Phryne...”

Her face softened, the twitching heel slowed, and she raised a hand to beckon Jack close.  When he warily stepped within reach, Phryne draped her arms around his neck and drew him in to stand between her knees. 

“You,” she said with a gentle kiss, “have the strongest moral compass of any man I’ve ever known.  And I would not have you any other way.”

..

Phryne returned to the Station at six o’clock in her Hispano.  She parked not far from the front of the Station and waited for Jack.  Sure enough, at a little after ten minutes past six, the Inspector exited the Station with his overcoat slung over one arm and his hat shading his face.  He looked a little surprised but rather pleased to see Phryne waiting for him and as he slid into the passenger seat, he shook off some of the worries of the day.  At some point, they would have to discuss his sleeping arrangements – he couldn’t very well sleep at Phryne’s house every night – but today was not the day for that discussion.  Watching Emil Dodgson walk out onto the street a free man had rendered the rest of Jack’s afternoon bitter and he was glad when his shift finished and he could leave it all behind for a while.

Dinner was followed by an evening of whiskey and port in the parlour.  It was pleasantly comfortable, Jack thought as he sat in the armchair and watched Dot working on her embroidery and Phryne turning the pages of a new Agatha Christie.  Sitting here, spending time in the household: it was like being part of a family.  The thought warmed him.

At half past ten, Dot packed away her sewing box and turned in for the night with a friendly goodnight.  It seemed that Miss Williams, like Mr Butler, had no problem with Jack’s new status as a regular overnight guest in the Fisher household.  Jack was surprised by how gladdened he was by the knowledge that he was welcome here.

He read a battered copy of Chaucer for another twenty minutes before Phryne closed her own book, stood and stretched, then padded over to Jack to slide onto his lap with a sultry smile. 

“Hello,” she whispered, resting her head against the side of his neck.

Jack returned her smile with a salacious grin of his own.  “Hello.  Ready for bed?”

“Mmmm.  You have the best ideas,” Phryne murmured against the skin of his throat.

..

Phryne spent much of the next day at a society function at the behest of Aunt Prudence, while Jack’s shift was spent completing the reams of paperwork that inevitably came with a death in custody.  He was on the verge of packing up for the day when the call came.

“Sir?” Constable Vimes’ knock was followed by his worried face peering around the office door.  “That sailor you had in for questioning yesterday?  He’s been found dead near Flinders Street.  West Station thought you’d want to take the case, since you were investigating him.”

Jack rocked back in his chair.  “Dead?”  How?”

“Murdered, sir.  Sometime during the night.”

“Who’s duty Constable for the night shift?”

“Collins, sir.  He’s just arrived.”

Jack stood and grabbed his coat and hat.  “Tell him not to sit down.  He’s coming with me.”

..

Emil Dodgson’s body lay mostly hidden under a pile of discarded fruit crates just off Flinders Street.  Two Constables from West Melbourne Station were guarding the scene when Jack and Hugh arrived and the men seemed happy to have the opportunity to take a smoke break while the new arrivals investigated the scene.

The Constables handed over the Merchant Navy identity card that had been fished from the dead man’s pocket, but Jack didn’t need to see it to be sure of the man’s identity.  The smug face that had faced him across a table in the interrogation room just yesterday was grey in death, although the rest of the body was hidden by refuse. 

When Hugh removed the crates from the dead man’s torso, Jack’s knees almost buckled from shock.

Still stuck in Dodgson’s chest was a very familiar dagger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: In case you're wondering, the cooks have Marlinspikes because they serve aboard a smallish Merchant Navy ship and have normal sailing duties in addition to their kitchen duties.   
> From 1918 onwards, the British Merchant Navy "Registrar General of Shipping and Seaman" system meant that all sailors were issued with an identification card that stated their name, home address, next of kin, date of birth, physical description and rank. These details were also logged with the Registrar General, with the goal of creating a central index of merchant seamen serving on British merchant navy vessels. My Grandad still has his, including the physical description: "Eyes: Blue. Hair: Brown. Complexion: Fair. Identifying marks: scar on chin."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to post a new chapter every 4 - 7 days. Thank you to everybody who has read and/or given kudos for this work - your support is really helpful on days when I struggle. I hope this chapter was worth the wait.

Avoiding his Constable’s gaze, Jack dropped to his knees beside the body.  The delicate yet functional dagger embedded in Dodgson’s chest was normally to be seen tucked into Phryne’s garter.  And, yes – a strand of silky black hair snagged under one of the dead man’s fingernails.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to panic.

“Sir?”  Collins lay one hand hesitantly on his superior’s shoulder.  “Isn’t that…that can’t be Miss Fisher’s knife, can it?”

A deep breath, like the ones he’d drawn before going over the tops of trenches.

“We can’t make any assumptions, Collins.  I want the body and every scrap of rubbish, every lose item from within twenty feet of here, taken to the Station.  Get those two West lads to help you, but keep an eye on everything they do.  I’ll be…no.  Wait until I come back before you touch anything.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”  Collins was wide-eyed with apprehension, and _no wonder_ , Jack thought.  All his usual decisiveness had left him and his thoughts were roiling in his head.  How on earth did Phryne’s knife and hair come to be at the scene?  She’d been with him all night, her body warm against his in bed.  Jack felt a stab of guilt at the thought that perhaps she could have snuck out while he was asleep – put something in his evening drink to assure he didn’t wake up – so that justice could be served against Dodgson.

No.  He couldn’t think like that.  Phryne’s moral compass might be a little free-spinning at times, but she was far from being a cold-blooded murderer.

Jack burst into a nearby pub and demanded use of the telephone.  The publican took one look at his face and wisely decided not to argue.

“Jack?”  After the delay of connecting, her voice on the other end of the line flooded Jack’s body with an unnameable emotion.

“Phryne, thank God.  Something’s happened.  I…” he stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose, reigning in the anxiety in his voice.  “Dodgson’s dead.”  He ignored her immediate questions and spoke over the top of her, “your knife, sweetheart.  It’s your knife in his chest.  I can’t keep this quiet for long.  You need to get someone you trust – not Dot, she’s too young – yes, Dr Mac, good – and come into the Station in an hour’s time.”  Jack paused, feeling sorrow and fear constrict his throat.  On the other end of the telephone, Phryne’s voice was a lot less self-assured than usual.

“Jack?  I’ll be there in an hour.  We’ll get this all sorted out, you’ll see.  I..I love you.”

Jack opened his mouth but found no ready words.  Fingers clenching the telephone speaker tight, he replied, “I’ll see you then,” and forced himself to hang up.

**

When she entered the Station with Mac in tow, Phryne realised that she’d never thought of what it must be like to be here knowing you were in real trouble.  Even now, she was hoping that this would be a relatively simple matter to clear up – but the real alarm she’d heard in Jack’s voice had frightened her.

The desk Constable directed her to the interview room she had sat in so many times and she and Mac waited in impatient silence.

When Jack arrived, the look in his eyes was one of a man who wasn’t sure whether to smile or weep.  He slid into the chair opposite his lover and opened a notebook.

“Miss Fisher, you’re here of your own free will to help clear up some questions regarding a recent death, correct?”

As hard as it was to hear Jack use that official tone of voice towards her, Phryne could see what Jack was trying to do.  “That’s right.”

“A man was stabbed last night.  Do you recognise this knife?”

Phryne closed her eyes for a moment, before replying truthfully.  “Yes.  It’s mine.”

Jack sighed.  “Is there any possibility, any possibility at all, that somebody else could have got possession of this knife?  Stolen it from your home or motorcar, perhaps?”

“The hilt broke about a month and a half ago.  I sent it to Melbourne Cutlery Company for repairs and ordered another made of the same design.  It’s quite possible somebody stole the repaired knife from my house, as I don’t use it anymore.  I think I left it in the kitchen drawer.”

Jack smiled a little.  “Good, that’s good,” he muttered to himself, making a note on the paper, before saying knowingly, “And is there anybody you can think of who has a grudge against you, Miss Fisher?  Anybody who would want to see you in trouble for a crime like this?”

Mac lifted one eyebrow.  “Where would you like her to start?”

Jack handed over the notepad and watched Phryne begin to list all the names of people she’d hindered or put away during her investigations.  The list was depressingly long, but it provided further proof that Phryne had enemies who were suitable suspects for framing her.

Now Jack just had to hope he could keep this under wraps long enough to find a real suspect and take the focus away from Phryne.

**

Sanderson was in Jack’s office at quarter past eight the next morning.

“Robinson, tell me it’s not true that you’ve let the key suspect in a murder case go free!”

“Sir?”

“The Fisher woman.  From what I hear, you’ve got plenty to arrest her on, and yet she’s clearly not in police custody.”

Jack shook his head emphatically.  “Sir, she’s innocent.  The whole thing is a set-up.”

“I’ve read the report, Inspector, and that’s not what the evidence says.  For God’s sake, there’s even a witness description of the last person seen with the dead man – a description that matches Miss Fisher perfectly.”

“Sir, evidence can be created to throw suspicion onto som…”

Sanderson held up a hand for silence, his voice stony.  “Inspector, I’m relieving you of this case.  You’re clearly too close to the suspect to be trusted in leading the investigation.  I’m reassigning it to Paterson.  And you’d be advised to steer well clear, or I’ll have you up on disciplinary action.”

Sanderson left, leaving behind a desperate man.  How did this all get so out of control so fast?  And how the hell was he going to fix it?

**

“Against the wall, please, Miss.”

The camera bulb flashed as Hugh photographed Phryne for the police file.   It was like a neat little parody of the time she’d been ‘arrested’ by Jack for interfering in an investigation, so long ago now.  But this time, there was no mugging for the camera; no silly poses; no smile on Hugh’s face.  The requisite photographs taken, Phryne was led away to the Interrogation Room where DI Paterson was waiting.

 

“You are Phryne Fisher?”

“Yes.”

“You were acquainted with the deceased?”

“Yes, through the course of investigations into several murders in the Port.”

“So you had ample reason to want him dead?”

“Oh for goodness sake.  If I’d really killed him, do you think I’d have been so stupid as to leave my own knife and hair at the scene of the crime?”  She was flustered, angry.  The worst of it was that DI Paterson was not a fool or a petty man.  He’d risen to the rank of Inspector by being good at his job.

“That aside…you had reason to want him dead?”

“Technically, yes, but no more than any other investigator who knew what he’d done.”

“Tell me about the case, Miss Fisher.  Tell me about Emil Dodgson.”

*

“Where were you last night, Miss Fisher?”

“At home.”

“Alone?”

“My Butler and lady’s maid were with me.  And I had a guest staying.”

“Can any of them confirm that you were at home the entire night?”

“All of them.”

“Hmmm.  What time did you retire to bed?”

“Just after eleven o’clock.”

“So for all your household knows, you could have left the house, committed the crime, and been back in your bed with no-one the wiser, isn’t that true?”

Phryne flushed with anger and a little humiliation at the fact that _this_ was the way her relationship with Jack was going to become public.

“My house guest can confirm that I was in my bed all night, Inspector,” she said coldly, daring him to say anything.

But Paterson simply wrote down her words in his notebook, before asking the question she’d half been dreading: “Who was your bedroom guest, Miss Fisher?”

 

**

 

“She’s innocent, George!  This is all put together by someone who wants her to be punished for a crime she didn’t commit!”  Jack paced in his office, fingers drawn up into fists, fighting to control himself.

Sanderson remained unmoved.  “How do you know for sure, Inspector?  After all, Miss Fisher has caused injury to suspects on several previous occasions, has she not?  What’s to say she didn’t stab this one the way she’s shot others in the past?”

“That’s…completely different!  She was acting in self-defence in those cases.  She’d never intentionally seek to murder somebody.  I _know_ her, George.”

“Jack, she’s claiming to have had a man with her the night of the murder, but she refuses to give us a name.  How can we believe her if she can’t even provide an alibi?”

Jack swung out a fist and knocked the lamp from his desk with a crash.  “It was me, alright?  I was with her, in her bed, all night!  We’ve been having…relations _._ She wouldn’t have wanted to tell Paterson in case I got in trouble. _I’m_ her alibi.”

Sanderson’s expression morphed from shock to calculation.  “And she’s _your_ alibi.  I think we need to talk, Inspector Robinson.”


	14. Chapter 14

One hour later, Jack found himself in Sanderson’s office, a glass of whiskey having been pressed into his hand.

“I want to help you, Robinson,” Sanderson said, watching sharp-eyed from the other side of the desk. 

Jack shifted under the man’s intense gaze, anger and confusion bubbling under his skin.  “With all due respect, Sir, it hasn’t seemed like it.”

Sanderson waved one hand as if to brush away Jack’s words.  “Don’t start, Inspector.  I already have Miss Fisher’s aunt ringing me nonstop to threaten social death if her niece isn’t immediately released.  And I shall say to you what I’ve said to her – Miss Fisher needs to learn that, rich or not, she is not immune from justice.”

“George, have you forgotten so quickly the help she gave you when you were in trouble?  What about all the cases she has helped solve?  And you’re just going to throw her to the wolves!”  The glass in Jack’s hand was gripped almost tight enough to crack; his muscles tensed for a fight.

“If Miss Fisher is truly innocent, she has nothing to fear from the Victorian Constabulary,” Sanderson claimed, topping up his glass, while Jack’s remained untouched.  “You, however, have some explaining to do, Inspector.  How long have you been having relations with Miss Fisher?”

Jack’s jaw tightened.  “I fail to see what that has to do with the case, _sir_.  Miss Fisher and I are both unattached adults.  Any relationship between us is the business of no-one but ourselves.”

Sanderson seemed unaffected by Jack’s bitter tone.  “Normally that would be true, Inspector, but by inviting Miss Fisher into your bed as well as into your cases, you’ve made it my business.  Now, how long has all this been going on for?”

Jack glared at his superior for a moment before gulping down his whiskey and replying in a low voice, “Just under a week.”

Sanderson lent back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.  “And you’ve been sharing information with her about your open cases?”

Jack gave Sanderson what could only be described as a _Look_.  “Of course I have.  She’s been helping the Victorian Police Force, with your approval might I add, for a lot longer than the few days I’ve been…involved with her.  You’ve never had a problem with it while she’s been helping solve crimes for us.”

“I was willing to overlook it as long as she didn’t bring the Police Force into disrepute.  Now, however…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, George, what do you want me to say?  Yes, I’m sleeping with her.  Yes, she helps me solve cases.  Yes, I believe wholeheartedly that she’s being framed.  And I’m damn well going to prove it.”

Jack stormed out of the office, with his superior’s warning of “stay away from the cells, Inspector” ringing in his ears.

 

()()

 

At 5:42pm, and armed with a wad of wool blankets, Phryne was locked in a cell for the night.  Her protests that if she’d had the self-restraint not to shoot Dubois in that café, she was unlikely to risk her freedom for a creature like Dodgson, had fallen on deaf ears.  Paterson was a good copper: incorruptible, methodical and clever.  Unfortunately, that meant that he was determined to ferret out every detail of Phryne and her possible involvement in Dodgson’s death before he even considered releasing her from custody.

)()(

“Sir!”  the sharp whisper around the door of Jack’s office woke him from his desperate study of the list of suspects who might have set Phryne up.  When he looked up, Hugh continued in a hurried voice, “Constable Daniels has just gone home and Mowbray who’s meant to be taking over from him rang to say he’s going to be 45 minutes late because of the train breaking down and if you go _right now_ _sir you can see Miss Fisher and no-one will see you!”_

Jack was out of his seat and down the stairs before Hugh recovered his breath.

()()

The sight that greeted him was heartbreaking.  Phryne sat on the bench, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her slightly ruffled hair haloed around her head and her eyes on the floor.  Worst of all was her unnatural stillness.  Phryne Fisher should never, not even momentarily, look defeated.

“Phryne.”

“Jack!”  She rushed to the bars and the moment the door was unlocked she was wrapped tightly in his arms.  “What are you doing down here?  If someone catches you…”

“Hugh’s standing watch.  He wants to help, any way he can.  _Everyone_ who loves you wants to help.  Surely you realise that?”  He held her as she buried her face against his chest, the tears she’d been fighting down finally breaking free.

He led her to the bench at the back of the cell, sitting so she could curl up against his side.  When her shoulders stopped shaking, Phryne raised her face with an expression of resolve.

“I’m going to beat this, Jack.  The case is weak – Paterson himself admitted it.”

“I know, sweetheart.  I’m hoping we can have you out of here within a day or two.  I just…” Jack broke off, the muscles in his throat working as he bit down the emotions ( _later, he could cry and rage – later, when she was safe and free)_ before finishing, “I wish you didn’t have to go through all this.”

Phryne tilted her head and leaned up into a desperate kiss, everything she couldn’t find the words to say becoming clear as her mouth sealed against Jack’s own.  Eventually, he broke away with a moan of distress. 

“Phryne, I didn’t come down here to…to…make _demands_ of you.”

“I know.  I just…needed to kiss you.” She leaned back into Jack, her legs tucked up on the bench and her head resting in his lap as he stroked her hair.  Aware of the time slipping away, she closed her eyes.  “Sing to me?”

Jack swallowed down his surprise, ready to do anything Phryne asked of him.  He racked his memories for a moment, then cleared his throat and sang for the woman he loved.

“It is nor'-west and west o'er the ranges and far   
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are,   
With the sky for my roof and the grass for my bunk,   
And a calico bag for my damper and junk;   
And scarcely a comrade my memory reveals,   
Save the spiritless dingo in tow of my heels.”

 

()()()

The next morning, Miss Dorothy Williams set her shoulders back, shouldered the sign she’d painted, and marched onto the street, trying not to think about what her mother or priest would have to say about it.

The protest against unemployment was no doubt an important cause, but what had drawn Dot to the morning’s demonstration was the fact that it was being staged in front of the City South Police Station.  And Dorothy Williams was there with a plan.  As the protest got under way, she began to slowly drift closer to the front door of the Station, her voice getting louder and her language more inflammatory as she did so.  Eventually, the Station door opened and a very put-upon Constable Hugh Collins appeared, waving his arms at the demonstrators.

“Alright, alright, settle down…Dottie!  What are you doing?”

“I’m…uh….protesting about the dreadful way that the police of this city treat the newly unemployed.  You, um…big…bullies?”

Hugh’s eyes darted to the watching protestors as he gently tugged Dot closer.  “Dottie, what is going on?”

Dot smiled wryly.  “I need to be with Miss Phryne, Hugh.  She’d never admit it, but she needs my support right now.  Please, just…lock me up for a day?”  Eyes fixed on Hugh’s troubled expression, she added softly, “please, Hugh?”

Hugh sighed, realising that it was beyond his powers to refuse anything to his sweetheart when she looked at him like that.  Clearing his throat, he raised his voice.  “Right, miss, that’s it – you’re under arrest for disturbing the peace.  And, uh…rioting.  If you’ll accompany me, please, your friends are free to continue their business.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dot was shown into the cell where she was reunited with her mistress in a flurry of hugs, and Hugh Collins was soundly pronounced “an absolute gem” by both women.

 

()()

 

Not forty minutes later, the “absolute gem” was astonished when a certain pair of cabbies stomped up to the front desk and began throwing Hugh’s neatly ordered paperwork to the floor.

“Oy!  What are you two doing?”

“What’s it bloody look like?” Bert snarled around the cigarette clamped between his teeth.  “We’re causing a ruckus, ain’t we?  Destroying police property and what not.”  He reached over the desk and grabbed Hugh’s mug of tea, draining the contents down before tossing it to Cec, who threw the mug out the front door.

Hugh took one look at the determination on their faces and shouted for his superior.

“Oh, here comes the big boss.  Maybe we should make a mess of his office while we’re here, ay Cec?”

Jack looked at the paperwork strewn across the floor and cast a withering glance at the culprits. “What do you two idiots think you’re going to achieve here, hmm?  For one thing, even if you succeed in making me arrest you, you wouldn’t be put in the same cell as Miss Fisher and Miss Williams anyway…”

Bert: “Dottie’s here?”

“…and you’d be able to do absolutely nothing to help her, locked up in here.”  Jack sighed, his face softening.  “Look, I understand your loyalty, I really do, but you can do a lot more to help out there than you could in here.  Have you still got that list of names I gave you?”

Cec had the good grace to look ashamed.  “Yeah.  We’ve tracked down about a dozen of the names.  But some of them are proving hard to find.”

“Alright.  I need you two to keep helping Mr Butler with that list.  The more people we can cross off, the closer we get to finding out who tried to frame Miss Fisher.  Please.  Go home.”

To Jack’s (and Hugh’s) relief, they went.


	15. Chapter 15

While Phryne and Dot slept the unhappy sleep of the caged downstairs, Jack was slumped awkwardly over his desk, having been felled by exhaustion.

His dreams were of the feel of a bayonet beneath his fingers and the scent of Phryne’s skin beneath his nose.  Haunted, he slept.  Dawn brought a new day.

()()

DI Paterson sat comfortably at the other side of the table, a notebook open in front of him.  “Inspector Robinson confirmed that he was with you on the night in question.  Does it worry you that there has been some suspicion that Robinson might have been influenced into assisting you to commit the crime?”

“Influenced?  You think I’d blackmail Jack into killing a man for me?”

“Wouldn’t you?  From the information I’ve gathered, you seem to have a strong history of persuading men to do whatever you want.”

Phryne shook her head, eyes hard with conviction.  “You obviously don’t know Jack very well.  He’s the best man in the entire constabulary, so even if I _was_ the sort of woman to try and blackmail a lover, _he’d_ never compromise his morals by agreeing to it.”

Paterson sat back in his chair as if satisfied by this answer.  “ _I_ know that, Miss Fisher.  I just wanted to see whether or not _you_ did.”  He marked something in the notebook, keeping it angled off the table so Phryne couldn’t read it upside down, then leaned back and sucked the end of the pencil as he appraised her with hooded eyes. 

“We checked into the cutlers from whom you ordered your knives.  You’ll be interested to know that they were able to produce copies of your order and a payment receipt showing that they did indeed repair one weapon and supply you with a second.”

“Good.  Then you can see that it is quite possible that somebody stole the repaired knife from my home and used it to throw suspicion on me.”

“And equally possible that, being aware that your earlier involvement in the case would inevitably lead to questions when Dodgson turned up dead, you decided to use your own spare knife in a neat bluff to convince the police you were being framed when in fact you committed the murder yourself.  After all,” Paterson continued over Phryne’s sound of complaint, “you are well acquainted enough with policework to know exactly how much evidence to leave to make a case that you’d been ‘set up’.  I believe, Miss Fisher, that you could very well have slipped something in Robinson’s food or drink to knock him out, committed the crime -  having known that Dodgson was likely to be hanging around the docks - and then returned home having intentionally left sufficient evidence to convince the police that you were being amateurishly framed for the murder.  You strike me as a very capable woman – more than able to pull off such a stunt.”

“I tell you, I did not kill that man!”

“Luckily for you, Miss Fisher, I cannot prove otherwise.  You are being released today for lack of solid evidence.  You must be very pleased with yourself.  God knows what Robinson has got himself into, being shackled to you.”

Paterson stood, said that a constable would be along shortly to organise her release, and left without a backward glance at the dazed-looking woman behind him.

()()

Having been released an hour earlier with a stern warning to keep away from protests in the future, Dot was on hand in the Station foyer when Phryne appeared.  If it wasn’t for the lack of lipstick and the splashes of angry colour high on her pallid cheeks, no-one could have known that this was a woman who’d spent the last two days in police custody.  She and Dot hailed a taxi and travelled home in animated conversation.

At ten minutes to six that evening, the doorbell rang.  Mr Butler admitted a flustered and desperate Inspector Robinson who stamped all over good manners by rushing into the parlour unannounced.

“Phryne!  I’ve been at a tram station all day looking into a suspicious death.  I came as soon as I could.”  His feet had brought him across the room and Phryne met him midway, her arms thrown around him without hesitation.

“I’ve missed you,” she admitted, pulling his head down for a well overdue kiss.  Everything he’d meant to say – apologies for not being able to do more, questions about her release, information about his own investigation into Dodgson’s murder - all faded from Jack’s mind as his lover deepened the kiss and wrapped a leg around his waist.

“Phryne, are you sure you…”

“Yes, yes I’m sure, please Jack , don’t deny me this, not after everything that’s happened, I need…I need you to…”  she broke off to kiss him again before withdrawing from his grasp to close and lock the parlour door.  When she turned back towards Jack, the sorrow in his eyes struck her like a blow to the chest.  This man really did love her.  The surge of affection and – yes, a little fear – the thought raised in her pushed her back into his arms.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for this, Jack.” She ordered fiercely as self-recrimination shadowed his face.  “There was nothing you could have done for me that you did not already do.  I’m not finished with this case, and I can see by the look on your face that neither are you, but let’s have tonight just to ourselves.”  And although she never thought she’d be comfortable with the idea of needing any man, Phryne threaded her fingers in Jack’s hair and breathed against his lips: “I need you to be with me tonight.”

With a moan, Jack bit gently at Phryne’s lower lip and took possession of her mouth.  His arms snaked around her back to pull her flush against his body and his thought processes stuttered to a stop.  Phryne was soft and warm against him.  Her breasts pressing against him, her tongue meeting his, her heel pressing against the back of his thigh - it all combined to drive Jack to utter distraction.  As his body rapidly hardened, Jack picked Phryne up and dropped her onto the chaise lounge, immediately following to lie cradled between her thighs.

Phryne’s hands on either side of his face drew Jack into a hungry kiss.  Her hips bucked upwards, forcing a aroused groan from deep in Jack’s throat.  With no patience for complicated clothing, he held his weight above Phryne on one arm and used the other hand to rapidly flick open the buttons of his fly and pull down the waistband of Phryne’s slacks.  The moment his fingers felt bare skin, he froze in recollection.  “Phryne, do you…are you using your diaphragm?”

She nodded, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth.  “I was hoping you’d visit tonight.  If not, I planned to come and find you.”

Jack kissed the smile, glad to see it return after her ordeal, and pressed thankfully into her body.  The sound Phryne made as he entered her caused his hips to snap forward and it was in a mood of urgent need that they moved together.  Jack couldn’t seem to stop himself from pressing kisses to Phryne’s face and greedy bites to her throat, her breasts, her shoulders.  His fingers stroking her clit soon caused her to tighten around him with a breathy gasp and Jack let instinct take over as he sought his own release, his face buried against Phryne’s shoulder so she couldn’t see just how close he was to tears.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, rather dark chapter, before we solve the case and return to a happier state of affairs.

It was still dark when Phryne woke and released she was alone in the bed.  The sheets beside her were rumpled but cool to the touch.  Reaching out to switch on the bedside lamp, she cast her eyes about the room and let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding when she spotted a shadow near the open window.

Climbing out of bed, she approached cautiously.  “Jack?”

In the darkness away from the lamp, he jerked his head to acknowledge her, but kept his eyes on the view out of the window.  He was naked but for his hastily donned trousers and his hair fell over his forehead and into his face, obscuring what little she could see of his expression.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured.  But there was something wrong with the timbre of his voice…the way he refused to look at her.  Leaning closer, Phryne could smell the tang of alcohol on his breath.

“What’s going on, Jack?”

For a long moment, she thought he was going to simply ignore her.  But to her relief, he finally half-turned from the window, the lamplight catching on the left side of his face like a parody of Jekyll and Hyde.

“They still think you’re guilty.  They’ll always…until we find the killer, they’ll always think you’re guilty.”  He raised a bottle to his lips and drank, the liquid slopping in the bottom of the bottle when his hand shook.

“We’ll prove them wrong,” Phryne replied, unsure how to deal with the anger in Jack’s voice.

“It doesn’t fucking matter.  The things they said about you….you know Paterson called you a whore?  Right to my face.  Wanted to know if you were as good a fuck as he’d heard…asked me if I’d fucked you in front of an audience yet, ‘cause you “seemed like the kind of filthy slut who’d like that”…”  Jack’s voice trailed off, the bottle hanging loose in his fingers, his jaw clenched with barely controlled rage.

Phryne said nothing – what was there to say?  The words cut deep, no matter that she’d heard similar vitriol once or twice before.  But knowing that they’d been said to Jack filled her with a kind of shame.  And actually hearing him speak such hateful words, even when the words weren’t his own…

The bottle dropped to the floor and the stink of the last of the cheap rum rose from the carpet.  Seizing Phryne by the upper arms, Jack yanked her close and caught her in an alcohol-marred kiss.  His mouth was too hard against her own, his teeth too sharp on her lower lip as his hand fumbled for her breast, but behind it all was a heartbreaking sense of desperation and protection.

“We’ll prove you’re innocent, we will, I swear to you.  And Paterson…I’ll kick his teeth down his goddamned throat.”

Phryne struggled to break away from the kiss long enough to shake her head. “He doesn’t matter.  I only care what you think.”

Jack seemed confused for a moment, then he barked a harsh laugh.  “You’re asking me if I think you’re a whore?  A slag?  Phryne…” despite the alcohol, his words were crisp and his gaze sharp as he gentled his grip and pressed his forehead against her own.  “I love you.  Every wild, kind, adventurous, sweet-natured part of you.  If you’re a whore, then so am I, for the way I hunger for you is boundless.”

All the anger seemed to seep out of Jack as he let himself be pulled into a fierce embrace.  Ignoring the stink of rum, Phryne led Jack back to bed and settled herself against him under the sheets.  With her lover’s head resting on her chest and his fingers threaded with her own, Phryne let the tension of the past few days start to dissipate as she fell asleep with the facts of the case beginning to fit together in her mind.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls: this is the final chapter of Infinite Variety. This brings the story to a total of eighteen chapters and 25 000+ words – not bad for a “short story” that was based on a single 10-second scene from an episode; was written on the back of an attempted suicide attempt; and was never originally intended to be anything more than a five or six-thousand-word excuse for getting Phryne and Jack together romantically.
> 
> My utmost thanks to all those who have read, reviewed, favourited or followed this story. Your support has been an immense, wonderful surprise. I hope that you enjoy this ending and that you consider taking the time to read some of my other fics, both past and future. I’ll now turn my attention to updating my ongoing fics, such as Mercury, Temptation and If Blood Should Stain the Wattle. Every review or message helps me write faster, as it assures me that the fics are getting a good enough response to be worthwhile writing.
> 
> To the other MFMM fanfiction authors who’ve offered opinions and reactions as the story grew and developed: you are all absolute peaches. Thank you.
> 
> So now: the ending.

 

“Jack, wake up!”

He came to with a start, his arms flying to protect his head before he realised where he was.  Phryne, letting go of the shoulder she’d been shaking, murmured an apology.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you...but I just realised something that’s been staring us in the face this entire time.  Who could have known about Dodgson?  I mean – that killing him would frame me?  Frame  _us_.”

It took a moment for Jack’s mind to get to full speed, but as he shook off the shadows of sleep, Phryne’s meaning struck him: “Someone who knew that Dodgson was being investigated.”

“And presumably someone who was close enough to the case to know that you and I are more than casual colleagues,” Phryne added with a raised eyebrow.

Jack ran a hand over his forehead, staring at the ceiling as the obvious began to click into place more easily now that his mind was not so overwhelmed by the stress of Phryne’s arrest.  “Which leaves out the Harbour Master and the workers at the docks….”

“…and the surgeon who performed the post mortems never knew who was conducting the investigation…” Phryne reminded him.

Jack’s shoulders slumped and he suddenly moved to sit up straighter.  “So it has to be someone at the Station.”

Phryne nodded, pleased that Jack had come to the same logical conclusion as she had five minutes previously.  She felt like shaking herself for not making the connections sooner, but hindsight was  _easy_  compared to trying to solve the case while being pummelled by the worries and strain of being under arrest for a crime she hadn’t committed.

“Jack, think carefully.  Who at the Station would have had access to the particulars of the case?  Who could have known that we’ve become involved with each other?”

Jack ran his hands through his hair, staring sightlessly at the bedroom door as he cast about for ideas.  “Well, Collins, of course, but we can discount him.  Sanderson knew we were close, but only became aware of the case  _after_  Dodgson was dead.  Paterson knew about the two dead girls from the get-go because an investigation he was running into a prostitution ring meant we shared information in case the crimes were related.  I showed him the reports that had been telegraphed through of similar crimes at other ports along the coast.   But he’s as straight as they come.  A mean-minded, rude, bastard, it’s true: but an incorruptible policeman.  I’d stake my life on it.  And I didn’t share the information about who or what we were investigating with anybody else.”

Phryne bit her lip, trying to imagine what they might have missed.  How could every possible suspect fail to be viable?  She was sure this was the key to the whole damn mess.  Was it possible she was wrong?

Jack must have read the look of vexation on her face, because he flung back the sheets and began to dress.  “I’m going to head to the Station and check everything we’ve done since the first body turned up.  There’s got to be something in this idea of yours.   _Why_  anyone at the Station would want to frame you for a murder I don’t know, but if we can figure out who  _could_  have done it, hopefully we’ll find out why they  _would_.”

Phryne nodded, sliding her arms into the sleeves of her silk kimono and tying the belt closed.  It was only after Jack had dropped a kiss to her forehead and was halfway out the bedroom door that a niggling thought in the back of her mind finally struck her.

“Jack, wait!  What did you say about reports being telegraphed through?   _Who sent the requests for information?_ ”

Jack’s lips parted on a profanity and he spat a name in angry realisation:

_“Constable William Logan.”_

()()

 

A quick call to Sanderson (made difficult by the man’s unwillingness to listen, until Jack had succinctly outlined the reasoning behind the new accusation) and a simpler call to Constable Collins, then they hastily dressed and drove directly to the address that Hugh had provided as being Constable Logan’s registered abode.

To his credit, Sanderson was already there when they arrived, although he pointed out sharply that he was not yet convinced.  Entering the boarding house, they made their way to the second floor and knocked on the door that bore a tarnished brass number ‘9’.

The young man who opened the door was vaguely familiar to Phryne.  She realised that she must have seen him around the Station and simply never paid him much attention.  But the look Logan’s his face when he saw her now was full of such hatred that she found herself taking a step backwards.

“What the fuck is she doing here?”  The young constable growled, eyes fixed on Phryne.

Sanderson bristled.  “Mind your language, Constable!  Inspector Robinson and I, along with Miss Fisher, are here because there is some evidence that you may have been involved in a series of crimes.  Now I suggest you let us in before the entire building decides to listen.”

The room had little to distinguish it from a hundred other boarding house bedrooms across the city.  A rickety bedframe and two-drawer bedside table, a small enamel washbowl and a freestanding cupboard filled most of the space.  But the one thing that was conspicuously out of place were the handwritten copies, hastily shoved in a half-open drawer, of every telegraph Jack had written and every response he had received about Emil Dodgson and his crimes.

Sanderson read out the top page.  “ _Require information STOP Crimes Emil Francis Dodgson STOP Cook British Merchant Navy STOP_  … why do you have copies of the transmissions you were asked to send, Constable?  Frankly, I’m starting to believe Inspector Robinson’s assurances that you were the only one who knew all the details of the Dodgson case and who could have had reason to want revenge on Inspector Robinson himself.” 

When Logan’s scowl deepened, Jack handed the rest of the pages to Sanderson to leaf through and fixed a stare on the angry young man.  “You’re very attached to Inspector Paterson, aren’t you, Constable?”

The constable shook with barely concealed fury.  “Don’t you dare talk about him!  He’s ten times the detective you are!  You waltz around with this  _woman_ , taking credit for other men’s work and parading your paltry successes like you’re something special but you’re  _not_.  I know what sort of man you are, Robinson.”

“And what sort of man is that, Constable?” Jack asked in a deceptively calm voice.

“A liar and a cheat.  A man who gets all the glory while good coppers like Arthur Paterson are overlooked.  Yeah, I know what sort of a man you are…”

Phryne eyed the young man with shocked contempt.  “Are you blind?  Have you not seen how much trouble Jack has been in with his superiors over the last few years?”  But William Logan shook his head dismissively and turned his face away from her.

“So you knew Dodgson was being investigated for two murders.  What I can’t understand is why, if I was the target of your ire, you decided to frame Miss Fisher?” Jack asked in a low voice.  Perhaps only Phryne noticed the way Jack’s shoulders were bunched beneath his coat as he fought to control himself and calmly question this man who’d plunged both their lives into chaos.

“I wasn’t going to – not at the start.  I was going to pin it on you.  But then my brother what works at the cutlers mentioned that a Miss Fisher had put a beauty of a knife in to be repaired and copied a while ago.   I knew it must be the same woman who hung around your coattails.  I could tell you were sleeping with her.  And I remembered my Aunty saying to me when I went to visit her last year, that one day Miss Fisher and Detective Robinson needed to be made to pay for everything they’d done to her.”  The young man’s face broke into an awful smile and a faraway look crept into his eyes as he basked in his own cleverness. “It was like it all fell together for me.  Like it was meant to be.  Her address was easy enough to get and the knife wasn’t hard to find – she’d told my brother when she picked up the order that she intended to throw the old knife in a drawer as a spare.  And that sailor was so drunk I could have followed him through the alleys with me eyes closed.  I paid a fancily-dressed whore to talk to him in the pub and lure him out into the street where I was waiting.  I couldn’t believe my luck when that whore had hair just like yours and the witnesses remembered seeing her with Dodgson before he died.  It was like the evidence I needed to set against you just fell into my lap.  All I had to do was frame one of you, and the other would go down too.   I tell you – it was meant to be.”

Sanderson’s face was grey as Logan’s words hanging in the air made him realise just how close this young man had come to successfully pinning a murder on two innocent people: one of them Sanderson’s own former son-in-law.  The older man had to moisten his lips before he could speak.  “Was Paterson in on your plan?”

“No no no – it was a present to him.  A secret gift from me.  I…I wanted to…”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?  You’d do anything to help his career – even commit murder.”  Phryne’s words were a question, but her voice said she already knew the answer.  The blush that stained Logan’s face simply confirmed it.

When Sanderson nodded and moved away to telephone the Station, Jack stepped toward the suddenly shrunken-looking killer and handcuffed him with obvious satisfaction.  When a police vehicle arrived ten minutes later, the disgraced constable was bundled into the back without a murmur of protest.  It was only then that Phryne thought to ask.

“Constable?  The aunt you mentioned – what’s her name?”

William Logan raised his head enough to answer before the police car bore him away:

“Lydia Andrews.”

 

()()()()

 

The rest of the house was silent but for the creaking of the roof cooling and settling as night gave way into the earliest hours of morning.  Within the walls of Phryne’s bedroom, the low light of a bedside lamp glinted on the gramophone and the husky strains of  _I Hate a Man Like You_  drifted through the room like an echo of another night spent in each other’s arms.

Shifting slightly, Phryne rested her cheek against Jack’s jaw and closed her eyes.  Jack turned further onto his back and tightened his arms around Phryne where she lay half atop him.

“Even knowing your talent for trouble, I must confess that though I’ve imagined it many times since we first met, I never thought our first week as lovers would be quite so chaotic as this,” Jack murmured, his voice merging with the music.  A lazy smile lifted the corners of Phryne’s mouth and she pressed another kiss – just the latest of the night’s many – against Jack’s throat before laying her head on his chest.

“Neither did I.  I suppose that at least we now know that this relationship, however it may be tested, is proven to be capable to withstanding that which would break it.”  She was quiet for a moment as she enjoyed the feeling of Jack’s fingers combing through her hair, and then her voice became more playful.  “And I’m relieved to hear that you have.  Spent a long time imagining us as lovers, I mean,” she clarified. 

Jack stretched beneath her like a particularly warm and comfortable cat, before he rolled onto his side and pulled Phryne up to match him face to face.

“Always.  Since the first day I saw you poking your nose in where you weren’t meant to be, I think.”  The low rumble of Jack’s voice was made no smoother by the hours of love making they had indulged in since sunset, but his eyes were still bright despite the tiredness that had relaxed his muscles.  He caught Phryne’s gaze and then caught her mouth, meeting her in a kiss that was at least three parts intimate for every one part sexual.

“I wondered if maybe you might one day grow tired of me.  Of the trouble I bring to your life and the disruption I cause.  If one day the novelty might wear thin.”  When Phryne speaks, her voice is soft and Jack can tell by the look in her eyes that these thoughts are something that has been wearing at her mind.

So as he pulls her leg over his hip and enters her welcoming body to move with the patience and tenderness of unending love, Jack shows Phryne the depth of emotion he has in his heart as he speaks again the words that he once used to sum up the impact that Phryne Fisher has on his heart:

“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale  
Her infinite variety: other women cloy  
The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry  
Where most she satisfies.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Final Note:
> 
> For those who don’t remember: Lydia Andrews was an old friend of Phryne’s who turned out to be a cocaine-dealing murderess in Season 1 Episode 1: “Cocaine Blues”. As Australia only ever hanged a total of two women during the 20th Century, Lydia would still be alive and angry, locked up in prison thanks to Phryne and Jack’s investigations. She would certainly have told her young nephew (my entirely invented Constable Logan) about the people whom she blamed for her capture and incarceration.
> 
>  
> 
> The song I Hate a Man Like You was playing when Phryne and Jack first slept together, back in Chapter Five.
> 
>  
> 
> The title of this fic, and indeed the final lines, are from Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. Jack himself quotes these same lines to Phryne on the stage during the episode Ruddy Gore: a bold and clear declaration of his love for her, if ever I saw one! Remember too that Jack tells us that you can’t go past Shakespeare for romantic declarations.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, a final “thank you”, to the bloggers at missfishersmurdermysteries [dot] tumblr and phryneandjack [dot] tumblr who mentioned me as a fanfiction writer worth seeking out and reading. I hope this fic makes the “worth reading” list!

**Author's Note:**

> When I began writing this, I wondered to myself whether I was moving the characters from ‘woah to go’ implausibly fast. But then I considered that their entire friendship, for all the time they’ve known each other, has been a form of courtship and lead-up to this moment. They might not have known it at the time, but I feel the characters (as portrayed in the show) were heading inevitably towards something like this. It’s that feeling, where you’ve known a person platonically for perhaps years and then one day it’s like the storm breaks…  
> Review with your thoughts, if you will?
> 
> And thank you, not just to reviewers (though I love reviews!) but to anyone who reads my work. An especial thanks to overseas readers for your interest in Kerry Greenwood’s wonderful characters and my attempt to make them do what I want. I understand that sometimes stories can frustrate when there is a cultural barrier, so if any reader ever needs more context (Australia, the slang of the time, information about the setting, etc) do please ask. Reviews make me smile, and reviews with information about what you liked or would like in my story make me smile and write faster


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